LIBRAhY 

University  of 

California 

Irvine 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

IRVINE 

GIFT  OF 
John  and  Mary  Prescott 


r, 


BACK  TO  GOD'S  COUNTRY 


BACK  TO 

GOD'S  COUNTRY 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 

BY 

JAMES   OLIVER   CUEWOOD 

AUTHOR  OF 

KAZAN,  THE  WOLF  HUNTERS, 
THE  GRIZZLY  KING,  ETC. 

Illustrated  with 

Scenes  from  the  Photoplay, 

A  First  National  Production 


NEW  YORK 

GEOSSET   &  DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


Made  in  the  United  State*  of  America 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
COSMOPOLITAN  BOOK  CORPORATION 


PAGE 

BACK  TO  GOD'S  COUNTRY     ..    >,    L.j    w    H    L.     .  9 

THE  YELLOW-BACK      .     ,:     .,    >:    L..    w    -,:    w     .  54 

THE  FIDDLING  MAN     .     .     .     ;.;    ;.,    :r    ;.:    ;.;     .  79 

L'ANGE .      ,.;      .       .       .  107 

THE  CASE  OF  BEAUVAIS     .     .     .     .     ,:     .     .     .  115 

THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE .  128 

THE  STRENGTH  OF  MEN     ........  137 

THE  MATCH .  160 

THE  HONOR  OF  HER  PEOPLE 179 

BUCKT  SEVERN >;     .  203 

His  FIRST  PENITENT .,     ..    •.•    .  209 

PETER  GOD    .     .     -     .,    :..    :.:     .,     .     w     .•    .«,     .  220 

THE  MOUSE  .  252 


BACK  TO  GOD'S  COUNTRY 


BACK  TO  GOD'S  COUNTRY 

WHEN  Shan  Tung,  the  long-cued  Chinaman  from 
Vancouver,  started  up  the  Frazer  Eiver  in  the  old 
days  when  the  Telegraph  Trail  and  the  headwaters 
of  the  Peace  were  the  Meccas  of  half  the  gold-hunt 
ing  population  of  British  Columbia,  he  did  not  fore 
see  tragedy  ahead  of  him.  He  was  a  clever  man, 
was  Shan  Tung,  a  cha-sukeed,  a  very  devil  in  the 
collecting  of  gold,  and  far-seeing.  But  he  could  not 
look  forty  years  into  the  future,  and  when  Shan 
Tung  set  off  into  the  north,  that  winter,  he  was  in 
reality  touching  fire  to  the  end  of  a  fuse  that  was 
to  burn  through  four  decades  before  the  explosion 
came. 

With'  Shan  Tung  went  Tao,  a  Great  Dane.  The 
Chinaman  had  picked  him  up  somewhere  on  the 
coast  and  had  trained  him  as  one  trains  a  horse. 
Tao  was  the  biggest  dog  ever  seen  about  the  Height 
of  Land,  the  most  powerful,  and  at  times  the  most 
terrible.  Of  two  things  Shan  Tung  was  enormously 
proud  in  his  silent  and  mysterious  oriental  way — 
of  Tao,  the  dog,  and  of  his  long,  shining  cue  which 
fell  to  the  crook  of  his  knees  when  he  let  it  down. 
It  had  been  the  longest  cue  in  Vancouver,  and  there- 

9 


10  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTEY 

fore  it  was  the  longest  cue  in  British  Columbia.  The! 
cue  and  the  dog  formed  the  combination  which  set 
the  forty-year  fuse  of  romance  and  tragedy  burning, 

Shan  Tung  started  for  the  El  Dorados  early  in 
the  winter,  and  Tao  alone  pulled  his  sledge  and  out 
fit.  It  was  no  more  than  an  ordinary  task  for  the 
monstrous  Great  Dane,  and  Shan  Tung  subser 
viently  but  with  hidden  triumph  passed  outfit  after 
outfit  exhausted  by  the  way.  He  had  reached  Copper 
Creek  Camp,  which  was  boiling  and  frothing  with 
the  excitement  of  gold-maddened  men,  and  was  con 
gratulating  himself  that  he  would  soon  be  at  the 
camps  west  of  the  Peace,  when  the  thing  happened. 
A  drunken  Irishman,  filled  with  a  grim  and  unfor 
tunate  sense  of  humor,  spotted  Shan  Tung's  won 
derful  cue  and  coveted  it.  Wherefore  there  followed 
a  bit  of  excitement  in  which  Shan  Tung  passed  into 
his  empyrean  home  with  a  bullet  through  his  heart, 
and  the  drunken  Irishman  was  strung  up  for  his 
misdeed  fifteen  minutes  later.  Tao,  the  Great  Dane, 
was  taken  by  the  leader  of  the  men  who  pulled  on 
the  rope. 

Tao's  new  master  was  a  "drifter,"  and  as  he 
drifted,  his  face  was  always  set  to  the  north,  until 
at  last  a  new  humor  struck  him  and  he  turned  east 
ward  to  the  Mackenzie.  As  the  seasons  passed,  Tao 
found  mates  along  the  way  and  left  a  string  of  his 
progeny  behind  him,  and  he  had  new  masters,  one 
after  another,  until  he  was  grown  old  and  his  muz 
zle  was  turning  gray.  And  never  did  one  of  these 
masters  turn  south  with  him.  Always  it  was  north^ 


11 

north  with  the  white  man  first,  north  with  the  Cree, 
and  then  with  the  Chippewayan,  until  in  the  end 
the  dog  born  in  a  Vancouver  kennel  died  in  an 
Eskimo  igloo  on  the  Great  Bear.  But  the  breed  of 
the  Great  Dane  lived  on.  Here  and  there,  as  the 
years  passed,  one  would  find  among  the  Eskimo 
trace-dogs,  a  grizzled-haired,  powerful-jawed  giant 
that  was  alien  to  the  arctic  stock,  and  in  these  occa 
sional  aliens  ran  the  blood  of  Tao,  the  Dane. 

Forty  years,  more  or  less,  after  Shan  Tung  lost 
his  life  and  his  cue  at  Copper  Creek  Camp,  there 
was  born  on  a  firth  of  Coronation  Gulf  a  dog  who 
was  named  Wapi,  which  means  "the  Walrus." 
Wapi,  at  full  growth,  was  a  throwback  of  more  than 
forty  dog  generations.  He  was  nearly  as  large  as 
his  forefather,  Tao.  His  fangs  were  an  inch  in 
length,  his  great  jaws  could  crack  the  thigh-bone  of 
a  caribou,  and  from  the  beginning  the  hands  of  men 
and  the  fangs  of  beasts  were  against  him.  Almost 
from  the  day  of  his  birth  until  this  winter  of  his 
fourth  year,  life  for  Wapi  had  been  an  unceasing 
fight  for  existence.  He  was  maya-tisew — bad  with 
the  badness  of  a  devil.  His  reputation  had  gone 
from  master  to  master  and  from  igloo  to  igloo; 
women  and  children  were  afraid  of  him,  and  men 
always  spoke  to  him  with  the  club  or  the  lash  in 
their  hands.  He  was  hated  and  feared,  and  yet  be 
cause  he  could  run  down  a  barren-land  caribou  and 
kill  it  within  a  mile,  and  would  hold  a  big  white  bear 
at  bay  until  the  hunters  came,  he  was  not  sacrificed 
to  this  hate  and  fear.  A  hundred  whips  and  clubs 


12 

and  a  hundred  pairs  of  hands  were  against  him  be 
tween  Cape  Perry  and  the  crown  of  Franklin  Bay — 
and  the  fangs  of  twice  as  many  dogs. 

The  dogs  were  responsible.  Quick-tempered, 
clannish  with  the  savage  brotherhood  of  the  wolves, 
treacherous,  jealous  of  leadership,  and  with  the  older 
instincts  of  the  dog  dead  within  them,  their  merci 
less  feud  with  what  they  regarded  as  an  interloper 
of  another  breed  put  the  devil  heart  in  Wapi.  In 
all  the  gray  and  desolate  sweep  of  his  world  he  had 
no  friend.  The  heritage  of  Tao,  his  forefather,  had 
fallen  upon  him,  and  he  was  an  alien  in  a  land  of 
strangers.  As  the  dogs  and  the  men  and  women  and 
children  hated  him,  so  he  hated  them.  He  hated  the 
sight  and  smell  of  the  round-faced,  blear-eyed  crea 
tures  who  were  his  master,  yet  he  obeyed  them, 
sullenly,  watchfully,  with  his  lips  wrinkled  warningly 
over  fangs  which  had  twice  torn  out  the  life  of  white 
bears.  Twenty  times  he  had  killed  other  dogs.  He 
had  fought  them  singly,  and  in  pairs,  and  in  packs. 
His  giant  body  bore  the  scars  of  a  hundred  wounds. 
He  had  been  clubbed  until  a  part  of  his  body  was 
deformed  and  he  traveled  with  a  limp.  He  kept 
to  himself  even  in  the  mating  season.  And  all  this 
because  Wapi,  the  Walrus,  forty  years  removed  from 
the  Great  Dane  of  Vancouver,  was  a  white  man's 
dog. 

Stirring  restlessly  within  him,  sometimes  coming 
to  him  in  dreams  and  sometimes  in  a  great  and  unful 
filled  yearning,  Wapi  felt  vaguely  the  strange  call 
of  his  forefathers.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to 


BACK  TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY  13 

understand.  It  was  Impossible  for  him  to  know 
what  it  meant.  And  yet  he  did  know  that  some 
where  there  was  something  for  which  he  was  seek 
ing  and  which  he  never  f  onnd.  The  desire  and  the 
questing  came  to  him  most  compellingly  in  the  long 
winter  filled  with  its  eternal  starlight,  when  the  mad 
dening  yap,  yap,  yap  of  the  little  white  foxes,  the 
forrking  of  the  dogs,  and  the  Eskimo  chatter  op 
pressed  him  like  the  voices  of  hannting  ghosts.  In 
these  long  months,  filled  with  the  horror  of  the  arctic 
night,  the  spirit  of  Tao  whispered  within  him  that 
somewhere  there  was  light  and  snn,  that  somewhere 
there  was  warmth  and  flowers,  and  running  streams, 
and  voices  he  could  understand,  and  things  he  could 
love.  And  then  Wapi  would  whine,  and  perhaps  the 
whine  would  bring  him  the  blow  of  a  club,  or  the 
lash  of  a  whip,  or  an  Eskimo  threat,  or  the  menace 
of  an  Eskimo  dog's  snarl.  Of  the  latter  Wapi  was 
unafraid.  With  a  snap  of  his  jaws,  he  could  break 
the  back  of  any  other  dog  on  Franklin  Bay. 

Such  was  Wapi,  the  Walrus,  when  for  two  sacks 
of  flour,  some  tobacco,  and  a  bale  of  cloth  he  became 
the  property  of  Blake,  the  uta-wawe-yinew,  the 
trader  in  seals,  whalebone — and  women.  On  this 
day  Wapi's  soul  took  its  flight  back  through  the 
space  of  forty  years.  For  Blake  was  white,  which 
is  to  say  that  at  one  time  or  another  he  had  been 
white.  His  skin  and  his  appearance  did  not  betray 
how  black  he  had  turned  inside  and  Wapi's  brute 
soul  cried  out  to  him,  telling  him  how  he  had  waited 
and  watched  for  this  master  he  knew  would  come, 


14:  BACK  TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

how  he  would  fight  for  him,  how  he  wanted  to  lie 
down  and  put  his  great  head  on  the  white  man's 
feet  in  token  of  his  fealty.  But  Wapi's  bloodshot 
eyes  and  battle-scarred  face  failed  to  reveal  what 
was  in  him,  and  Blake — following  the  instructions 
of  those  who  should  know — ruled  him  from  the 
beginning  with  a  club  that  was  more  brutal  than  the 
club  of  the  Eskimo. 

For  three  months  Wapi  had  been  the  property 
of  Blake,  and  it  was  now  the  dead  of  a  long  and 
sunless  arctic  night.  Blake's  cabin,  built  of  ship 
timber  and  veneered  with  blocks  of  ice,  was  built 
in  the  face  of  a  deep  pit  that  sheltered  it  from  wind 
and  storm.  To  this  cabin  came  the  Nanatalmutes 
from  the  east,  and  the  Kogmollocks  from  the  west, 
bartering  their  furs  and  whalebone  and  seal-oil  for 
the  things  Blake  gave  in  exchange,  and  adding 
women  to  their  wares  whenever  Blake  announced  a 
demand.  The  demand  had  been  excellent  this 
winter.  Over  in  Darnley  Bay,  thirty  miles  across 
the  headland,  was  the  whaler  Harpoon  frozen  up 
for  the  winter  with  a  crew  of  thirty  men,  and  straight 
out  from  the  face  of  his  igloo  cabin,  less  than  a  mile 
away,  was  the  Flying  Moon  with  a  crew  of  twenty 
more.  It  was  Blake's  business  to  wait  and  watch 
like  a  hawk  for  such  opportunities  as  there,  and 
tonight —  his  watch  pointed  to  the  hour  of  twelve, 
midnight — he  was  sitting  in  the  light  of  a  sputtering 
seal-oil  lamp  adding  up  figures  which  told  him  that 
his  winter,  only  half  gone,  had  already  been  an 
enormously  profitable  one. 


BACK   TO    GOD'S   COUNTRY  15 

"If  the  Mounted  Police  over  at  Herschel  only 
knew,"  he  chuckled.  "Uppy,  if  they  did,  they'd 
have  an  outfit  after  us  in  twenty-four  hours. " 

Oopi,  his  Eskimo  right-hand  man,  had  learned  to 
understand  English,  and  he  nodded,  his  moon-face 
split  by  a  wide  and  enigmatic  grin.  In  his  way, 
"Uppy"  was  as  clever  as  Shan  Tung  had  been  in 
his. 

And  Blake  added,  "We've  sold  every  fur  and 
every  pound  of  bone  and  oil,  and  we  Ve  forty  Upisk 
wives  to  our  credit  at  fifty  dollars  apiece." 

Tippy's  grin  became  larger,  and  his  throat  was 
filled  with  an  exultant  rattle.  In  the  matter  of  the 
Upisk  wives  he  knew  that  he  stood  ace-high. 

"Never,"  said  Blake,  "has  our  wife-by-the-month 
business  been  so  good.  If  it  wasn't  for  Captain 
Rydal  and  his  love-affair,  we'd  take  a  vacation  and 
go  hunting." 

He  turned,  facing  the  Eskimo,  and  the  yellow  flame 
of  the  lamp  lit  up  his  face.  It  was  the  face  of  a 
remarkable  man.  A  black  beard  concealed  much  of 
its  cruelty  and  its  cunning,  a  beard  as  carefully  Van- 
dycked  as  though  Blake  sat  in  a  professional  chair 
two  thousand  miles  south,  but  the  beard  could  not 
hide  the  almost  inhuman  hardness  of  the  eyes. 
There  was  a  glittering  light  in  them  as  he  looked 
at  the  Eskimo.  "Did  you  see  her  today,  Uppy? 
Of  course  you  did.  My  Gawd,  if  a  woman  could 
ever  tempt  me,  she  could!  And  Eydal  is  going  to 
have  her.  Unless  I  miss  my  guess,  there's  going  to 
be  money  in  it  for  us — a  lot  of  it.  The  funny  part 


16  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

of  it  is,  RydaPs  got  to  get  rid  of  her  husband.  And 
how's  he  going  to  do  it,  Tippy?  Eh?  Answer  me 
that.  How's  he  going  to  do  it?" 

In  a  hole  he  had  dug  for  himself  in  the  drifted 
snow  under  a  huge  scarp  of  ice  a  hundred  yards 
from  the  igloo  cabin  lay  Wapi.  His  bed  was  red 
with  the  stain  of  blood,  and  a  trail  of  blood  led 
from  the  cabin  to  the  place  where  he  had  hidden  him 
self.  Not  many  hours  ago,  when  by  God's  sun  it 
should  have  been  day,  he  had  turned  at  last  on  a 
teasing,  snarling,  back-biting  little  kiskanuk  of  a 
'dog  and  had  killed  it.  And  Blake  and  Uppy  had 
beaten,  him  until  he  was  almost  dead. 

It  was  not  of  the  beating  that  Wapi  was  thinking 
as  he  lay  in  his  wallow.  He  was  thinking  of  the 
fur-clad  figure  that  had  come  between  Blake's  club 
and  his  body,  of  the  moment  when  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life  he  had  seen  the  face  of  a  white  woman. 
She  had  stopped  Blake's  club.  He  had  heard  her 
voice.  She  had  bent  over  him,  and  she  would  have 
put  her  hand  on  him  if  his  master  had  not  dragged 
her  back  with  a  cry  of  warning.  She  had  gone 
into  the  cabin  then,  and  he  had  dragged  himself 
away. 

Since  then  a  new  and  thrilling  flame  had  burned  in 
him.  For  a  time  his  senses  had  been  dazed  by  his 
punishment,  but  now  every  instinct  in  him  was  like 
a  living  wire.  Slowly  he  pulled  himself  from  his 
retreat  and  sat  down  on  his  haunches.  His  gray 
muzzle  was  pointed  to  the  sky.  The  same  stars  were 
there,  burning  in  cold,  white  points  of  flame  as  they 


BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY  17 

had  burned  week  after  week  in  the  maddening 
monotony  of  the  long  nights  near  the  pole.  They 
were  like  a  million  pitiless  eyes,  never  blinking,  al 
ways  watching,  things  of  life  and  fire,  and  yet  dead. 
And  at  those  eyes,  the  little  white  foxes  yapped  so 
incessantly  that  the  sound  of  it  drove  men  mad. 
They  were  yapping  now.  They  were  never  stilL 
And  with  their  yapping  came  the  droning,  hissing 
monotone  of  the  aurora,  like  the  song  of  a  vast  piece 
of  mechanism  in  the  still  farther  north.  Toward 
this  Wapi  turned  his  bruised  and  beaten  head.  Out 
there,  just  beyond  the  ghostly  pale  of  vision,  was 
the  ship.  Fifty  times  he  had  slunk  out  and  around 
it,  cautiously  as  the  foxes  themselves.  He  had 
caught  its  smells  and  its  sounds ;  he  had  come  near 
enough  to  hear  the  voices  of  men,  and  those  voices 
were  like  the  voice  of  Blake,  his  master.  There 
fore,  he  had  never  gone  nearer. 

There  was  a  change  in  him  now.  His  big  pads 
fell  noiselessly  as  he  slunk  back  to  the  cabin  and 
sniffed  for  a  scent  in  the  snow.  He  found  it.  It 
was  the  trail  of  the  white  woman.  His  blood  tingled 
again,  as  it  had  tingled  when  her  face  bent  over 
him  and  her  hand  reached  out,  and  in  his  soul  there 
rose  up  the  ghost  of  Tao  to  whip  him  on.  He  fol 
lowed  the  woman's  footprints  slowly,  stopping  now 
and  then  to  listen,  and  each  moment  the  spirit  in  him 
grew  more  insistent,  and  ke  whined  up  at  the  stars. 
At  last  he  saw  the  ship,  a  wraithlike  thing  in  its 
piled-up  bed  of  ice,  and  he  stopped.  This  was  hia 
dead-line.  He  had  never  gone  nearer.  But  tonight 


18  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTKY 

— if  any  one  period  could  be  called  night — he  went 
on. 

It  was  the  hour  of  sleep,  and  there  was  no  sound 
aboard.  The  foxes,  never  tiring  of  their  infuriat 
ing  sport,  were  yapping  at  the  ship.  They  barked 
faster  and  louder  when  they  caught  the  scent  of 
Wapi,  and  as  he  approached,  they  drifted  farther 
away.  The  scent  of  the  woman's  trail  led  up  the 
wide  bridge  of  ice,  and  "Wapi  followed  this  as  he 
would  have  followed  a  road,  until  he  found  himself 
all  at  once  on  the  deck  of  the  Flying  Moon.  For  a 
space  he  was  startled.  His  long  fangs  bared  them 
selves  at  the  shadows  cast  by  the  stars.  Then  he 
saw  ahead  of  him  a  narrow  ribbon  of  yellow  light. 
Toward  this  Wapi  sniffed  out,  step  by  step,  the  foot 
prints  of  the  woman.  When  he  stopped  again,  his 
muzzle  was  at  the  narrow  crack  through  which  came 
the  glimmer  of  light. 

It  was  the  door  of  a  deck-house  veneered  like  an 
igloo  with  snow  and  ice  to  protect  it  from  cold  and 
wind.  It  was,  perhaps,  half  an  inch  ajar,  and 
through  that  aperture  Wapi  drank  the  warm,  sweet 
perfume  of  the  woman.  With  it  he  caught  also  the 
smell  of  a  man.  But  in  him  the  woman  scent  sub 
merged  all  else.  Overwhelmed  by  it,  he  stood 
trembling,  not  daring  to  move,  every  inch  of  him 
thrilled  by  a  vast  and  mysterious  yearning.  He  was 
no  longer  Wapi,  the  Walrus ;  Wapi,  the  Killer.  Tao 
was  there.  And  it  may  be  that  the  spirit  of  Shan 
Tung  was  there.  For  after  forty  years  the  change 
had  come,  and  Wapi,  as  he  stood  at  the  woman's 


BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY  19 

door,  was  just  dog, — a  white  man's  dog — again  the 
dog  of  the  Vancouver  kennel — the  dog  of  a  white 
man's  world. 

He  thrust  open  the  door  with  his  nose.  He  slunk 
in,  so  silently  that  he  was  not  heard.  The  cabin 
was  lighted.  In  a  bed  lay  a  white-faced,  hollow- 
cheeked  man — awake.  On  a  low  stool  at  his  side  sat 
a  woman.  The  light  of  the  lamp  hanging  from  above 
warmed  with  gold  fires  the  thick  and  radiant  mass 
of  her  hair.  She  was  leaning  over  the  sick  man. 
One  slim,  white  hand  was  stroking  his  face  gently, 
and  she  was  speaking  to  him  in  a  voice  so  sweet  and 
soft  that  it  stirred  like  wonderful  music  in  Wapi's 
warped  and  beaten  soul.  And  then,  with  a  great 
sigh,  he  flopped  down,  an  abject  slave,  on  the  edge 
of  her  dress. 

With  a  startled  cry  the  woman  turned.  For  a 
moment  she  stared  at  the  great  beast  wide-eyed,  then 
there  came  slowly  into  her  face  recognition  and  un 
derstanding.  "Why,  it's  the  dog  Blake  whipped 
so  terribly, "  she  gasped.  * ' Peter,  it's — it 's  Wapi ! ' ' 

For  the  first  time  Wapi  felt  the  caress  of  a 
woman's  hand,  soft,  gentle,  pitying,  and  out  of  him 
there  came  a  wimpering  sound  that  was  almost  a 
sob. 

"It's  the  dog — he  whipped,"  she  repeated,  and, 
then,  if  Wapi  could  have  understood,  he  would  have 
noted  the  tense  pallor  of  her  lovely  face  and  the 
look  of  a  great  fear  that  was  away  back  in  the  star 
ing  blue  depths  of  her  eyes. 

From  his  pillow  Peter  Keith  had  seen  the  look 


20  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTBY 

of  fear  and  the  paleness  of  her  cheeks,  but  he  was 
a  long  way  from  guessing  the  truth.  Yet  he  thonght 
he  knew.  For  days — yes,  for  weeks — there  had  been 
that  growing  fear  in  her  eyes.  He  had  seen  her 
mighty  fight  to  hide  it  from  him.  And  he  thought 
he  understood. 

"I  know  it  has  been  a  terrible  winter  for  you, 
dear,"  he  had  said  to  her  many  times.  "But  you 
mustn't  worry  so  much  about  me.  I'll  be  on  my 
feet  again — soon. "  He  had  always  emphasized  that. 
"I'll  be  on  my  feet  again  soon!" 

Once,  in  the  breaking  terror  of  her  heart,  she  had 
almost  told  him  the  truth.  Afterward  she  had 
'thanked  God  for  giving  her  the  strength  to  keep  it 
back.  It  was  day — for  they  spoke  in  terms  of  day 
and  night — when  Rydal,  half  drunk,  had  dragged  her 
into  his  cabin,  and  she  had  fought  him  until  her  hair 
was  down  about  her  in  tangled  confusion — and  she 
had  told  Peter  that  it  was  the  wind.  After  that,  in 
stead  of  evading  him,  she  had  played  Eydal  with  her 
wits,  while  praying  to  God  for  help.  It  was  impossible 
to  tell  Peter.  He  had  aged  steadily  and  terribly  in 
the  last  two  weeks.  His  eyes  were  sunken  into  deep 
pits.  His  blond  hair  was  turning  gray  over  the  tem 
ples.  His  cheeks  were  hollowed,  and  there  was  a 
different  sort  of  luster  in  his  eyes.  He  looked  fifty 
instead  of  thirty-five.  Her  heart  bled  in  its  agony. 
She  loved  Peter  with  a  wonderful  love. 

The  truth!  If  she  told  him  that!  She  could  see 
Peter  rising  up  out  of  his  bed  like  a  ghost.  It  would 
kill  him.  If  he  could  have  seen  Eydal — only  an 


hour  before — stopping  her  out  on  the  deck,  taking 
her  in  his  arms,  and  kissing  her  until  his  drunken 
breath  and  his  beard  sickened  her !  And  if  he  could 
have  heard  what  Eydal  had  said!  She  shuddered. 
And  suddenly  she  dropped  down  on  her  knees  beside 
"Wapi  and  took  his  great  head  in  her  arms,  unafraid 
of  him — and  glad  that  he  had  come. 

Then  she  turned  to  Peter.  "I'm  going  ashore 
to  see  Blake  again — now,"  she  said.  "Wapi  will 
go  with  me,  and  I  won't  be  afraid.  I  insist  that  I 
am  right,  so  please  don't  object  any  more,  Peter 
dear." 

She  bent  over  and  kissed  him,  and  then  in  spite 
of  his  protest,  put  on  her  fur  coat  and  hood,  and 
stood  for  a  moment  smiling  down  at  him.  The  fear 
was  gone  out  of  her  eyes  now.  It  was  impossible 
for  him  not  to  smile  at  her  loveliness.  He  had 
always  been  proud  of  that.  He  reached  up  a  thin 
hand  and  plucked  tenderly  at  the  shining  little  ten 
drils  of  gold  that  crept  out  from  under  her  hood. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't,  dear,"  he  pleaded. 

How  pathetically  white,  and  thin,  and  weak  he 
was!  She  kissed  him  again  and  turned  quickly  to 
hide  the  mist  in  her  eyes.  At  the  door  she  blew  him 
a  kiss  from  the  tip  of  her  big  fur  mitten,  and  as  she 
went  out  she  heard  him  say  in  the  thin,  strange  voice 
that  was  so  unlike  the  old  Peter : 

"Don't  be  long,  Dolores." 

She  stood  silently  for  a  few  moments  to  make  sure 
that  no  one  would  see  her.  Then  she  moved  swiftly 
to  the  iee  bridge  and  out  into  the  star-lighted  ghost- 


22  BACK  TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

liness  of  the  night.  Wapi  followed  close  behind 
her,  and  dropping  a  hand  to  her  side  she  called 
softly  to  him.  In  an  instant  Wapi's  muzzle  was 
against  her  mitten,  and  his  great  body  quivered  with 
joy  at  her  direct  speech  to  him.  She  saw  the 
response  in  his  red  eyes  and  stopped  to  stroke  him 
with  both  mittened  hands,  and  over  and  over  again 
she  spoke  his  name.  "Wapi — Wapi — Wapi."  He 
whined.  She  could  feel  him  under  her  touch  as  if 
alive  with  an  electrical  force.  Her  eyes  shone.  In 
the  white  starligiit  there  was  a  new  emotion  in  her 
face.  She  had  found  a  friend,  the  one  friend  she 
and  Peter  had,  and  it  made  her  braver. 

At  no  time  had  she  actually  been  afraid — for  her 
self.  It  was  for  Peter.  And  she  was  not  afraid 
now.  Her  cheeks  flushed  with  exertion  and  her 
breath  came  quickly  as  she  neared  Blake's  cabin. 
Twice  she  had  made  excuses  to  go  ashore — just  be 
cause  she  was  curious,  she  had  said — and  she  be 
lieved  that  she  had  measured  up  Blake  pretty  well. 
It  was  a  case  in  wThich  her  woman's  intuition  had 
failed  her  miserably.  She  was  amazed  that  such 
a  man  had  marooned  himself  voluntarily  on  the  arctic 
coast.  She  did  not,  of  course,  understand  his  busi 
ness — entirely.  She  thought  him  simply  a  trader. 
And  he  was  unlike  any  man  aboard  ship.  By  his 
carefully  clipped  beard,  his  calm,  cold  manner  of 
speech,  and  the  unusual  correctness  with  which  he 
used  his  words  she  was  convinced  that  at  some  time 
or  another  he  had  been  part  of  what  she  mentally 
thought  of  as  "an  entirely  different  environment/* 


BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY  23 

She  was  right.  There  was  a  time  when  London  and 
New  York  would  have  given  much  to  lay  their  hands 
on  the  man  who  now  called  himself  Blake. 

Dolores,  excited  by  the  conviction  that  Blake 
would  help  her  when  he  heard  her  story,  still  did 
not  lose  her  caution.  Eydal  had  given  her  another 
twenty-four  hours,  and  that  was  all.  In  those 
twenty-four  hours  she  must  fight  out  their  salva 
tion,  her  own  and  Peter's.  If  Blake  should  fail • 

.  .  / 

Fifty  paces  from  his  cabin  she  stopped,  slipped 

the  big  fur  mitten  from  her  right  hand  and  unbut 
toned  her  coat  so  that  she  could  quickly  and  easily 
reach  an  inside  pocket  in  which  was  Peter's  revolver. 
She  smiled  just  a  bit  grimly,  as  her  fingers  touched 
the  cold  steel.  It  was  to  be  her  last  resort.  And 
she  was  thinking  in  that  flash  of  the  days  ''back 
home"  when  she  was  counted  the  best  revolver  shot 
at  the  Piping  Eock.  She  could  beat  Peter,  and  Peter 
was  good.  Her  fingers  twined  a  bit  fondly  about  the 
pearl-handled  thing  in  her  pocket.  The  last  resort 
— and  from  the  first  it  had  given  her  courage  to  keep 
the  truth  from  Peter! 

She  knocked  at  the  heavy  door  of  the  igloo  cabin. 
Blake  was  still  up,  and  when  he  opened  it,  he  stared 
at  her  in  wide-eyed  amazement.  Wapi  hung  out 
side  when  Dolores  entered,  and  the  door  closed. 

"I  know  you  think  it  strange  for  me  to  come  at 
this  hour,"  she  apologized,  "but  in  this  terrible 
gloom  I've  lost  all  count  of  hours.  They  have  no 
significance  for  me  any  more.  And  I  wanted  to  see 
you — alone." 


24  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

She  emphasized  the  word.  And  as  she  spoke,  she 
loosened  her  coat  and  threw  back  her  hood,  so  that 
the  glow  of  the  lamp  lit  np  the  ruffled  mass  of  gold 
the  hood  had  covered.  She  sat  down  withont  wait 
ing  for  an  invitation,  and  Blake  sat  down  opposite 
her  with  a  narrow  table  between  them.  Her  face 
was  flushed  with  cold  and  wind  as  she  looked  at 
him.  Her  eyes  were  blue  with  the  blue  of  a  steady 
flame,  and  they  met  his  own  squarely.  She  was  not 
nervous.  Nor  was  she  afraid. 

" Perhaps  you  can  guess — why  I  have  come?"  she 
asked. 

He  was  appraising  her  almost  startling  beauty 
with  the  lamp  glow  flooding  down  on  her.  For  a 
moment  he  hesitated;  then  he  nodded,  looking  at 
her  steadily.  "Yes,  I  think  I  know,"  he  said 
quietly.  "It's  Captain  Eydal.  In  fact,  I'm  quite 
positive.  It's  an  unusnal  situation,  you  know. 
Have  I  guessed  correctly?" 

She  nodded,  drawing  in  her  breath  quickly  and 
leaning  a  little  toward  him,  wondering  how  much  he 
knew  ana  how  he  had  come  by  it. 

"A  very  imusual  situation,"  he  repeated. 
"There's  nothing  in  the  world  that  makes  beasts 
out  of  men — most  men — more  quickly  than  an  arctic 
night,  Mrs.  Keith.  And  they're  all  beasts  out  there 
— now — all  except  your  husband,  and  he  is  contented 
because  he  possesses  the  one  white  woman  aboard 
ship.  It's  putting  it  brutally  plain,  but  it's  the 
truth,  isn't  it?  For  the  time  being  they're  beasts, 
every  man  of  the  twenty,  and  you — pardon  me! — 


BACK  TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY  25 

are  very  beautiful.  Eydal  wants  you,  and  the  fact 
that  your  husband  is  dying " 

"He  is  not  dying,"  she  interrupted  him  fiercely. 
" He  shall  not  die!  If  he  did " 

"Do  you  love  him?"  There  was  no  insult  in 
Blake's  quiet  voice.  He  asked  the  question  as  if 
much  depended  on  the  answer,  as  if  he  must  assure 
Mmself  of  that  fact. 

''Love  him — my  Peter?    Yes!" 

She  leaned  forward  eagerly,  gripping  her  hands 
in  front  of  him  on  the  table.  She  spoke  swiftly,  as 
if  she  must  convince  him  before  he  asked  her  an 
other  question.  Blake's  eyes  did  not  change.  They 
had  not  changed  for  an  instant.  They  were  hard, 
and  cold,  and  searching,  unwarmed  by  her  beauty, 
(by  the  luster  of  her  shining  hair,  by  the  touch  of 
her  breath  as  it  came  to  him  over  the  table. 

"I  have  gone  everywhere  with  him — every 
where,"  she  began.  "  Peter  writes  books,  you  know, 
and  we  have  gone  into  all  sorts  of  places.  We  love 
It — both  of  us — this  adventuring.  We  have  been  all 
through  the  country  down  there,"  she  swept  a  hand 
to  the  south,  "on  dog  sledges,  in  canoes,  with  snow- 
shoes,  and  pack-trains.  Then  we  hit  on  the  idea  of 
coming  north  on  a  whaler.  You  know,  of  course, 
Captain  Eydal  planned  to  return  this  autumn.  The 
crew  was  rough,  but  we  expected  that.  We  expected 
to  put  up  with  a  lot.  But  even  before  the  ice  shut 
us  in,  before  this  terrible  night  came,  Eydal  insulted 
me.  I  didn't  dare  tell  Peter.  I  thought  I  could 
handle  Eydal,  that  I  could  keep  him  in  his  place, 


26  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

and  I  knew  that  if  I  told  Peter,  he  would  kill  the! 

beast.    And  then  the  ice — and  this  night ""    She 

choked. 

Blake's  eyes,  gimleting  to  her  soul,  were  shot 
with  a  sudden  fire  as  he,  too,  leaned  a  little  over  the 
table.  But  his  voice  was  unemotional  as  rock.  It 
merely  stated  a  fact.  "That's  why  Captain  Rydal 
allowed  himself  to  be  frozen  in,"  he  said.  "He  had 
plenty  of  time  to  get  into  the  open  channels,  Mrs. 
Keith.  But  he  wanted  you.  And  to  get  you  he 
knew  he  would  have  to  lay  over.  And  if  he  laid 
over,  he  knew  that  he  would  get  you,  for  many  things 
may  happen  in  an  arctic  night.  It  shows  the  depth  of 
the  man's  feelings,  doesn't  it?  He  is  sacrificing  a 
great  deal  to  possess  you,  losing  a  great  deal  of 
time,  and  money,  and  all  that.  And  when  your  hus 
band  dies " 

Her  clenched  little  fist  struck  the  table.     :*He 
won't  die,  I  tell  you!    Why  do  you  say  that?" 
" Because — Rydal  says  he  is  going  to  die." 
"Rydal — lies.     Peter  had  a  fall,  and  it  hurt  Hia 
spine  so  that  his  legs  are  paralyzed.    But  I  know 
what  it  is.     If  he  could  get  away  from  that  ship 
and  could  have  a  doctor,  he  would  be  well  again  in 
two  or  three  months." 

"But  Rydal  says  he  is  going  to  die." 
There  was  no  mistaking  the  significance  of  Blake  9& 
words  this  time.  Her  eyes  filled  with  sudden  horror. 
Then  they  flashed  with  the  blue  fire  again.  "So — • 
he  has  told  you?  "Well,  he  told  me  the  same  thing 
today.  He  didn't  intend  to,  of  course.  But  he  was 


BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTKY  27 

half  mad,  and  he  had  been  drinking.  He  has  given 
me  twenty-four  hours." 

"In  which  to — surrender?" 

There  was  no  need  to  reply. 

For  the  first  time  Blake  smiled.  There  was  some 
thing  in  that  smile  that  made  her  flesh  creep. 
"Twenty-four  hours  is  a  short  time,"  he  said,  "and 
in  this  matter,  Mrs.  Keith,  I  think  that  you  will  find 
Captain  Rydal  a  man  of  his  word.  No  need  to  ask 
you  why  you  don't  appeal  to  the  crew!  Useless! 
But  you  have  hope  that  I  can  help  you?  Is  that 
it?';< 

Her  heart  throbbed.  "That  is  why  I  have  come 
to  you,  Mr.  Blake.  You  told  me  today  that  Fort 
Confidence  is  only  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  away 
and  that  a  Northwest  Mounted  Police  garrison  is 
there  this  winter — with  a  doctor.  Will  you  help 
me?" 

"A  hundred  and  fifty  miles,  in  this  country,  at 
this  time  of  the  year,  is  a  long  distance,  Mrs. 
Keith,"  reflected  Blake,  looking  into  her  eyes  with 
a  steadiness  that  at  any  other  time  would  have  been 
embarrassing.  "It  means  the  McFarlane,  the  Lacs 
Delesse,  and  the  Arctic  Barren.  For  a  hundred 
miles  there  isn't  a  stick  of  timber.  If  a  storm  came 
• — no  man  or  dog  could  live.  It  is  different  from  the 
coast.  Here  there  is  shelter  everywhere. "  He  spoke 
slowly,  and  he  was  thinking  swiftly.  "It  would  take 
fire  days  at  thirty  miles  a  day.  And  the  chances 
are  that  your  husband  would  not  stand  it.  One  hun 
dred  and  twenty  hours  at  fifty  degrees  below  zero, 


28 

and  no  fire  until  the  fourth  day.    He  would  die.'* 

"It  would  be  better — for  if  we  stay "  shei 

stopped,  unclenching  her  hands  slowly. 

"What!"  lie  asked. 

"I  shall  kill  Captain  Bydal,"  she  declared.  "It 
is  the  only  thing  I  can  do.  "Will  you  force  me  to 
do  that,  or  will  you  help  me  ?  You  have  sledges  and 
many  dogs,  and  we  will  pay.  And  I  have  judged 
you  to  be — a  man." 

He  rose  from  the  table,  and  for  a  moment  his  face 
was  turned  from  her.  "You  probably  do  not  under 
stand  my  position,  Mrs.  Keith,"  he  said,  pacing 
slowly  back  and  forth  and  chuckling  inwardly  at  the 
shock  he  was  about  to  give  her.  "You  see,  my  liveli 
hood  depends  on  such  men  as  Captain  EydaL  I 
have  already  done  a  big  business  with  him  in  bone, 
oil,  pelts — and  Eskimo  women." 

Without  looking  at  her  he  heard  the  horrified 
intake  of  her  breath.  It  gave  him  a  pleasing  sort 
of  thrill,  and  he  turned,  smiling,  to  look  into  her 
dead-white  face.  Her  eyes  had  changed.  There 
was  no  longer  hope  or  entreaty  in  them.  They  were 
simply  pools  of  blue  flame.  And  she,  too,  rose  to 
(her  feet. 

"Then — I  can  expect — no  help — from  you." 

"I  didn't  say  that,  Mrs.  Keith.  It  shocks  you  to 
know  that  I  am  responsible.  But  up  here,  you  must 
understand  the  code  of  ethics  is  a  great  deal  dif 
ferent  from  yours.  We  figure  that  what  I  have  done 
for  Rydal  and  his  crew  keeps  sane  men  from  going 
mad  during  the  long  months  of  darkness.  But  thai 


29 

doesn't  mean  I'm  not  going  to  help  yon — and  Peter* 
I  think  I  shall.  But  yon  mnst  give  me  a  little  time 
in  which  to  consider  the  matter — say  an  hour  or  so.; 
I  understand  that  whatever  is  to  be  done  must  be 
done  quickly.  If  I  make  up  my  mind  to  take  yon 
to  Fort  Confidence,  we  shall  start  within  two  or 
three  hours.  I  shall  bring  you  word  aboard  ship. 
So  you  might  return  and  prepare  yourself  and  Peter 
for  a  probable  emergency." 

She  went  out  dumbly  into  the  night,  Blake  seeing 
her  to  the  door  and  closing  it  after  her.  He  was 
courteous  in  his  icy  way  but  did  not  offer  to  escort 
her  back  to  the  ship.  She  was  glad.  Her  heart  was 
choking  her  with  hope  and  fear.  She  had  measured 
him  differently  this  time.  And  she  was  afraid.  She 
had  caught  a  glimpse  that  had  taken  her  beyond  the 
man,  to  the  monster.  It  made  her  shudder.  And 
yet  what  did  it  matter,  if  Blake  helped  them? 

She  had  forgotten  Wapi.  Now  she  found  him 
again  close  at  her  side,  and  she  dropped  a  hand  to 
his  big  head  as  she  hurried  back  through  the  pallid 
gloom.  She  spoke  to  him,  crying  out  with  sobbing1 
breath  what  she  had  not  dared  to  reveal  to  Blake. 
For  "\Yapi  the  long  night  had  ceased  to  be  a  hell  of 
ghastly  emptiness,  and  to  her  voice  and  the  touch" 
of  her  hand  he  responded  with  a  whine  that  was  the 
whine  of  a  wThite  man's  dog.  They  had  traveled 
two-thirds  of  the  distance  to  the  ship  when  he 
stopped  in  his  tracks  and  sniffed  the  wind  that  was 
coming  from  shore.  A  second  time  he  did  this,  and 
a  third,  and  the  third  time  Dolores  turned  with  him 


30  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

and  faced  the  direction  from  which  they  had  come- 
A  low  growl  rose  in  Wapi  's  throat,  a  snarl  of  menace 
with  a  note  of  warning  in  it. 

"What  is  it,  Wapi?"  whispered  Dolores.  She 
heard  his  long  fangs  click,  and  under  her  hand  she 
felt  his  body  grow  tense.  "What  is  it?"  she  re 
peated. 

A  thrill,  a  suspicion,  shot  into  her  heart  as  they 
went  on.  A  fourth  time  Wapi  faced  the  shore  and 
growled  before  they  reached  the  ship.  Like  shadows 
they  went  up  over  the  ice  bridge.  Dolores  did  not 
enter  the  cabin  but  drew  Wapi  behind  it  so  they 
could  not  be  seen.  Ten  minutes,  fifteen,  and  sud 
denly  she  caught  her  breath  and  fell  down  on  her 
knees  beside  Wapi,  putting  her  arms  about  his  gaunt 
shoulders.  "Be  quiet, ' '  she  whispered.  "Be  quiet. ' ' 

Up  out  of  the  night  came  a  dark  and  grotesque 
shadow.  It  paused  below  the  bridge,  then  it  came 
on  silently  and  passed  almost  without  sound  toward 
the  captain's  quarters.  It  was  Blake.  Dolores* 
heart  was  choking  her.  Her  arms  clutched  Wapi, 
whispering  for  him  to  be  quiet,  to  be  quiet.  Blake 
disappeared,  and  she  rose  to  her  feet.  She  had  come 
of  fighting  stock.  Peter  was  proud  of  that.  "You 
slim  wonderful  little  thing!"  he  had  said  to 
her  more  than  once.  "You've  a  heart  in  that  pretty 
body  of  yours  like  the  general's !"  The  general  was 
her  father,  and  a  fighter.  She  thought  of  Peter's 
words  now,  and  the  fighting  blood  leaped  through 
her  veins.  It  was  for  Peter  more  than  herself  that 
she  was  going  to  fight  now. 


31 

She  made  Wapi  understand  that  he  must  remain 
where  he  was.  Then  she  followed  after  Blake,  fol 
lowed  until  her  ears  were  close  to  the  door  behind 
Avhich  she  could  already  hear  Blake  and  Eydal  talk 
ing. 

Ten  minutes  later  she  returned  to  Wapi.  Under 
her  hood  her  face  was  as  white  as  the  whitest  star 
in  the  sky.  She  stood  for  many  minutes  close  to  the 
dog,  gathering  her  courage,  marshaling  her 
strength,  preparing  herself  to  face  Peter.  He  must 
not  suspect  until  the  last  moment.  She  thanked 
God  that  Wapi  had  caught  the  taint  of  Blake  in  the 
air,  and  she  was  conscious  of  offering  a  prayer  that 
God  might  help  her  and  Peter. 

Peter  gave  a  cry  of  pleasure  when  the  door  opened 
and  Dolores  entered.  He  saw  Wapi  crowding  in, 
and  laughed.  ''Pals  already!  I  guess  I  needn't 
have  been  afraid  for  you.  What  a  giant  of  a 
dog!" 

The  instant  she  appeared,  Dolores  forced  upon 
herself  an  appearance  of  joyous  excitement.  She 
flung  off  her  coat  and  ran  to  Peter,  hugging  his  head 
against  her  as  she  told  him  swiftly  what  they  were 
going  to  do.  Fort  Confidence  was  only  one  hundred 
and  fifty  miles  away,  and  a  garrison  of  police  and  a 
doctor  were  there.  Five  days  on  a  sledge!  That 
was  all.  And  she  had  persuaded  Blake,  the  trader, 
to  help  them.  They  would  start  now,  as  soon  as 
she  got  him  ready  and  Blake  came.  She  must  hurry. 
And  she  was  wildly  and  gloriously  happy,  she  told 
him.  In  a  little  while  they  would  be  at  least  on  the 


32  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

outer  edge  of  this  horrible  night,  and  he  would  be 
in  a  doctor's  hands. 

She  was  holding  Peter's  head  so  thai:  he  could 
not  see  her  face,  and  by  the  time  she  jumped  up  and 
he  did  see  it,  there  w^as  nothing  in  it  to  betray  the 
truth  or  the  fact  that  she  was  acting  a  lie.  First  she 
began  to  dress  Peter  for  the  trail.  Every  instant 
gave  her  more  courage.  This  helpless,  sunken- 
cheeked  man  with  the  hair  graying  over  his  temples 
was  Peter,  her  Peter,  the  Peter  who  had  watched 
over  her,  and  sheltered  her,  and  fought  for  her  ever 
since  she  had  known  him,  and  now  had  come  her 
chance  to  fight  for  him.  The  thought  filled  her  with 
a  wonderful  exultation.  It  flushed  her  cheeks,  and 
put  a  glory  into  her  eyes,  and  made  her  voice  trem 
ble.  How  wonderful  it  was  to  love  a  man  as  she 
loved  Peter!  It  was  impossible  for  her  to  see  the 
contrast  they  made — Peter  with  his  scrubby  beard, 
his  sunken  cheeks,  his  emaciation,  and  she  with  her 
radiant,  golden  beauty.  She  was  ablaze  with  the 
desire  to  fight.  And  how  proud  of  her  Peter  would 
be  when  it  was  all  over! 

She  finished  dressing  him  and  began  putting 
things  in  their  big  dunnage  sack.  Her  lips  tightened 
as  she  made  this  preparation.  Finally  she  came 
to  a  box  of  revolver  cartridges  and  emptied  them 
into  one  of  the  pockets  of  her  under-jacket.  Wapi, 
flattened  out  near  the  door,  watched  every  move 
ment  she  made. 

When  the  dunnage  sack  was  filled,  she  returned 
to  Peter.  "Won't  it  be  a  joke  on  Captain  Rydal!" 


BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY  33 

she  exulted.  "You  see,  we  aren't  gong  to  let  him 
know  anything  about  it."  She  appeared  not  to  ob 
serve  Peter's  surprise.  "You  know  how  I  hate  him, 
Peter  dear,"  she  went  on.  "He  is  a  beast.  But 
Mr.  Blake  has  done  a  great  deal  of  trading  with 
him,  and  he  doesn't  want  Captain  Eydal  to  know 
the  part  he  is  taking  in  getting  us  away.  Not  that 
Bydal  would  rniss  us,  you  know!  I  don't  think 
he  cares  very  much  whether  you  live  or  die,  Peter, 
and  that's  why  I  hate  him.  But  we  must  humor 
Mr.  Blake.  He  doesn't  want  him  to  know." 

"Odd,"  mused  Peter.  "It's  sort  of — sneaking 
away." 

His  eyes  had  in  them  a  searching  question  which 
Dolores  tried  not  to  see  and  which  she  was  glad  he 
did  not  put  into  words.  If  she  could  only  fool  him 
another  hour — just  one  more  hour. 

It  was  less  than  that — half  an  hour  after  she  had 
finished  the  dunnage  sack — when  they  heard  foot 
steps  crunching  outside  and  then  a  knock  at  the 
door.  Wapi  answered  with  a  snarl,  and  when  Do 
lores  opened  the  door  and  Blake  entered,  his  eyes  fell 
first  of  all  on  the  dog. 

"Attached  himself,  eh?"  he  greeted,  turning  his 
quiet,  unemotional  smile  on  Peter.  "First  white 
woman  he  has  ever  seen,  and  I  guess  the  case  is 
hopeless.  Mrs.  Keith  may  have  him." 

He  turned  to  her.    "Are  you  ready?" 

She  nodded  and  pointed  to  the  dunnage  sack. 
Then  she  put  on  her  fur  coat  and  hood  and  helped 
Peter  sit  up  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  while  Blake 


34  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

opened  the  door  again  and  made  a  low  signal.  In 
stantly  Uppy  and  another  Eskimo  came  in.  Blake 
led  with  the  sack,  and  the  two  Eskimos  carried  Peter. 
Dolores  followed  last,  with  the  fingers  of  one  little 
hand  gripped  about  the  revolver  in  her  pocket.  Wapi 
hugged  so  close  to  her  that  she  could  feel  his 
body. 

On  the  ice  was  a  sledge  without  dogs.  Peter  was 
bundled  on  this,  and  the  Eskimos  pulled  him.  Blake 
was  still  in  the  lead.  Twenty  minutes  after  leaving 
the  ship  they  pulled  up  beside  his  cabin. 

There  were  two  teams  ready  for  the  trail,  one  of 
six  dogs,  and  another  of  five,  each  watched  over  by 
an  Eskimo.  The  visor  of  Dolores r  hood  kept  Blake 
from  seeing  how  sharply  she  took  in  the  situation. 
Under  it  her  eyes  were  ablaze.  Her  bare  hand 
gripped  her  revolver,  and  if  Peter  could  have  heard 
the  beating  of  her  heart,  he  would  have  gasped.  But 
she  was  cool,  for  all  that.  Swiftly  and  accurately 
she  appraised  Blake's  preparations.  She  observed 
that  in  the  six-dog  team,  in  spite  of  its  numerical 
superiority,  the  animals  were  more  powerful  than 
those  in  the  five-dog  team.  The  Eskimos  placed 
Peter  on  the  six-dog  sledge,  and  Dolores  helped  to 
wrap  him  up  warmly  in  the  bearskins.  Their  dun 
nage  sack  was  tied  on  at  Peter's  feet.  Not  until 
then  did  she  seem  to  notice  the  five-dog  sledge.  She 
smiled  at  Blake.  ""We  must  be  sure  that  in  our 
excitement  we  haven't  forgotten  something,"  she 
said,  going  over  what  was  on  the  sledge.  "This  is 
a  tent,  and  here  are  plenty  of  warm  bearskins — and 


BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTEY  35 

— and—  She  looked  up  at  Blake,  who  was  watch 
ing  her  silently.  "If  there  is  no  timber  for  so  long, 
Mr.  Blake,  shouldn't  we  have  a  big  bundle  of  kind 
ling?  And  surely  we  should  have  meat  for  the 
dogs!" 

Blake  stared  at  her  and  then  turned  sharply  on 
Uppy  with  a  rattle  of  Eskimo.  Uppy  and  one  of 
the  companions  made  their  exit  instantly  and  in 
great  haste. 

"The  fools!"  he  apologized.  "One  has  to  watch 
tliem  like  children,  Mrs.  Keith.  Pardon  me  while 
I  help  them." 

She  waited  until  he  followed  Uppy  into  the  cabin. 
Then,  with  the  remaining  Eskimo  staring  at  her 
in  wonderment,  she  carried  an  extra  bearskin,  the 
small  tent,  and  a  narwhal  grub-sack  to  Peter's 
sledge.  It  was  another  five  minutes  before  Blake 
and  the  two  Eskimos  reappeared  with  a  bag  of  fish 
and  a  big  bundle  of  ship-timber  kindlings.  Dolores 
stood  with  a  mittened  hand  on  Peter's  shoulder,  and 
bending  down,  she  whispered: 

"Peter,  if  you  love  me,  don't  mind  what  I'm  going 
to  say  now.  Don't  move,  for  everything  is  going 
to  be  all  right,  and  if  you  should  try  to  get  up  or 
roll  off  the  sledge,  it  would  be  so  much  harder  for 
me.  I  haven't  even  told  you  why  we're  going  to 
Fort  Confidence.  Now  you'll  know!" 

She  straightened  up  to  face  Blake.  She  had 
chosen  her  position,  and  Blake  was  standing  clear 
and  unshadowed  in  the  starlight  half  a  dozen  paces 
from  her.  She  had  thrust  her  hood  back  a  little, 


36  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

inspired  by  her  feminine  instinct  to  let  him  see  her 
contempt  for  him, 

"You  beast!" 

The  words  hissed  hot  and  furious  from  her  lips, 
and  in  that  same  instant  Blake  found  himself  staring 
straight  into  the  unquivering  muzzle  of  her  revolver. 

"You  beast!"  she  repeated.  "I  ought  to  kill  you. 
I  ought  to  shoot  you  down  where  you  stand,  for  you 
are  a  cur  and  a  coward  I  know  what  you  have 
planned.  I  followed  you  when  you  went  to  Rydal's 
cabin  a  little  while  ago,  and  I  heard  everything  that 
passed  between  you.  Listen,  Peter,  and  I'll  tell  you 
what  these  brutes  were  going  to  do  with  us.  You 
were  to  go  with  the  six-dog  team  and  I  with  the 
five,  and  out  on  the  barrens  we  were  to  become  sepa 
rated,  you  to  go  on  and  be  killed  when  you  were 
a  proper  distance  away,  and  I  to  be  brought  back 
— to  Rydal.  Do  you  understand,  Peter  dear!  Isn't 
it  splendid  that  we  should  have  forced  on  us  like 
this  such  wonderful  material  for  a  story ! ' ' 

She  was  gloriously  unafraid  now.  A  prean  of 
triumph  rang  in  her  voice,  triumph,  contempt,  and 
utter  fearlessness.  Her  mittened  hand  pressed  on 
Peter 's  shoulder,  and  before  the  weapon  in  her  other 
hand  Blake  stood  as  if  turned  into  stone. 

"You  don't  know,"  she  said,  speaking  to  him 
directly,  "how  near  I  am  to  killing  you.  I  think  I 
shall  shoot  unless  you  have  the  meat  and  kindlings 
put  on  Peter's  sledge  immediately  and  give  Uppy 
instructions — in  English — to  drive  us  to  Fort  Con 
fidence.  Peter  and  I  will  both  go  with  the  six- 


BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY  87 

dog  sledge.  Give  the  instructions  quickly,  Mr. 
Blake!" 

Blake,  recovering  from  the  shock  she  had  given 
him,  flashed  back  at  her  his  cool  and  cynical  smile. 
In  spite  of  being  caught  in  an  unpleasant  lie,  he  ad 
mired  this  golden-haired,  blue-eyed  slip  of  a  woman 
for  the  colossal  bluff  she  was  playing.  "  Personally, 
I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  "but  I  couldn't  help  it.  Ry- 
dal " 

"I  am  sure,  unless  you  give  the  instructions 
quickly,  that  I  shall  shoot,"  she  interrupted  him. 
Her  voice  was  so  quiet  that  Peter  was  amazed. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Keith.    But " 

A  flash  of  fire  blinded  him,  and  with  the  flash 
Blake  staggered  back  with  a  cry  of  pain  and  stood 
swaying  unsteadily  in  the  starlight,  clutching  with 
one  hand  at  an  arm  which  hung  limp  and  useless 
at  his  side. 

"That  time,  I  broke  your  arm,"  said  Dolores,  with 
scarcely  more  excitement  than  if  she  had  made  a 
bull's-eye  on  the  Piping  Rock  range.  "If  I  fire 
again,  I  am  quite  positive  that  I  shall  kill  you!" 

The  Eskimos  had  not  moved.  They  were  like 
three  lifeless,  staring  gargoyles.  For  another  second 
or  two  Blake  stood  clutching  at  his  arm.  Then  he 
said, 

* '  Uppy,  put  the  dog  meat  and  the  kindlings  on  the 
big  sledge — and  drive  like  hell  for  Fort  Confidence !" 
And  then,  before  she  could  stop  him,  he  followed  up 
his  words  swiftly  and  furiously  in  Eskimo. 

"Stop!" 


38  BACK  TO   GOD'S   COUNTEY 

She  almost  shrieked  the  one  word  of  warning,  and 
with  it  a  second  shot  burned  its  way  through  the 
flesh  of  Blake's  shoulder  and  he  went  down.  The 
revolver  turned  on  Uppy,  and  instantly  he  was  elec 
trified  into  life.  Thirty  seconds  later,  at  the  head 
of  the  team,  he  was  leading  the  way  out  into  the 
chaotic  gloom  of  the  night.  Hovering  over  Peter, 
riding  with  her  hand  on  the  gee-bar  of  the  sledge, 
Dolores  looked  back  to  see  Blake  staggering  to  his 
feet.  He  shouted  after  them,  and  what  he  said  was 
in  Uppy  'a  tongue.  And  this  time  she  could  not  stop 
[him. 

She  had  forgotten  Wapi.  But  as  the  night  swal 
lowed  them  up,  she  still  looked  back,  and  through 
the  gloom  she  saw  a  shadow  coming  swiftly.  In  a 
few  moments  Wapi  was  running  at  the  tail  of  the 
sledge.  Then  she  leaned  over  Peter  and  encircled 
liis  shoulders  with  her  furry  arms. 

"We're  off!"  she  cried,  a  breaking  note  of  glad 
ness  in  her  voice.  "We're  off!  And,  Peter  dear, 
wasn't  it  perfectly  thrilling!" 

A  few  minutes  later  she  called  upon  Uppy  to 
stop  the  team.  Then  she  faced  him,  close  to  Peter, 
with  the  revolver  in  her  hand. 

' '  Uppy, ' '  she  demanded,  speaking  slowly  and  dis 
tinctly,  "what  was  it  Blake  said  to  you?" 

For  a  moment  Uppy  made  as  if  to  feign  stupidity. 
The  revolver  covered  a  spot  half-way  between  his 
narrow-slit  eyes. 

"I  shall  shoot " 

Uppy  gave  a  choking  gasp,    "He  said — no  take 


BACK   TO   GOD'S    COUNTEY  39 

trail  For*  Con'dence — go  wrong — he  come  soon  get 


von.' 


"Yes,  he  said  just  that."  She  picked  her  words 
even  more  slowly.  "Uppy,  listen  to  me.  If  you  let 
them  come  up  with  us — unless  you  get  us  to  Fort 
Confidence — I  will  kill  you.  Do  you  understand!" 

She  poked  her  revolver  a  foot  nearer,  and  Uppy 
nodded  emphatically.  She  smiled.  It  was  almost 
funny  to  see  Uppy's  understanding  liven  up  at  the 
point  of  the  gun,  and  she  felt  a  thrill  that  tingled 
to  her  finger-tips.  The  little  devils  of  adventure 
were  wide-awake  in  her,  and,  smiling  at  Uppy,  she 
told  him  to  hold  up  the  end  of  his  driving  whip.  He 
obeyed.  The  revolver  flashed,  and  a  muffled  yell 
came  from  him  as  he  felt  the  shock  of  the  bullet 
as  it  struck  fairly  against  the  butt  of  his  whip.  In 
the  same  instant  there  came  a  snarling  deep- throated 
growl  from  Wapi.  From  the  sledge  Peter  gave  a 
cry  of  warning.  Uppy  shrank  back,  and  Dolores 
cried  out  sharply  and  put  herself  swiftly  between 
Wapi  and  the  Eskimo.  The  huge  dog,  ready  to 
spring,  slunk  back  to  the  end  of  the  sledge  at  the 
command  of  her  voice.  She  patted  his  big  head 
before  she  got  on  the  sledge  behind  Peter. 

There  was  no  indecision  in  the  manner  of  Uppy's 
going  now.  He  struck  out  swift  and  straight  for  the 
pale  constellation  of  stars  that  hung  over  Fort  Con 
fidence.  It  was  splendid  traveling.  The  surface  of 
the  arctic  plain  was  frozen  solid.  What  little  wind 
there  was  came  from  behind  them,  and  the  dogs 
were  big  and  fresh.  Uppy  ran  briskly,  snapping  the 


40  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

lash  of  his  whip  and  la-looing  to  the  dogs  in  the 
manner  of  the  Eskimo  driver.  Dolores  did  not  wait 
for  Peter's  demand  for  a  further  explanation  of 
their  running  away  and  her  remarkable  words  to 
Blake.  She  told  him.  She  omitted,  for  the  sake 
of  Peter's  peace  of  mind,  the  physical  insults  she 
had  suffered  at  Captain  Eydal's  hands.  She  did 
not  tell  him  that  Eydal  had  forced  her  into  his  arms 
a  few  hours  before  and  kissed  her.  What  she  did 
reveal  made  Peter's  arms  and  shoulders  grow  tense 
and  he  groaned  in  his  helplessness. 

"If  you'd  only  told  me!"  he  protested. 

Dolores  laughed  triumphantly,  with  her  arm 
about  his  shoulder.  "I  knew  my  dear  old  Peter  too 
well  for  that, ' '  she  exulted.  "If  I  had  told  you,  what 
a  pretty  mess  we'd  be  in  now,  Peter!  You  would 
have  insisted  on  calling  Captain  Rydal  into  our 
cabin  and  shooting  him  from  the  bed — and  then 
where  would  we  have  been?  Don't  you  think  I'm 
handling  it  pretty  well,  Peter  dear?" 

Peter's  reply  was  smothered  against  her  hooded 
cheek. 

He  began  to  question  her  more  directly  now,  and 
with  his  ability  to  grasp  at  the  significance  of  things 
he  pointed  out  quickly  the  tremendous  hazard  of 
their  position.  There  were  many  more  dogs  and 
other  sledges  at  Blake 's  place,  and  it  was  utterly  in 
conceivable  that  Blake  and  Captain  Rydal  would 
permit  them  to  reach  Fort  Confidence  without  mak 
ing  every  effort  in  their  power  to  stop  them.  Once 
they  succeeded  in  placing  certain  facts  in  the  hands 


BACK   TO   GOD'S    COUNTRY  41 

of  the  Mounted  Police,  botli  Eydal  and  Blake  would 
be  done  for.  He  impressed  this  uncomfortable 
truth  on  Dolores  and  suggested  that  if  she  could 
have  smuggled  a  rifle  along  in  the  dunnage  sack 
it  would  have  helped  matters  considerably.  For 
Eydal  and  Blake  would  not  hesitate  at  shooting. 
For  them  it  must  be  either  capture  or  kill — death  for 
him,  anyway,  for  he  was  the  one  factor  not  wanted 
in  the  equation.  He  summed  up  their  chances  and 
their  danger  calmly  and  pointedly,  as  he  always 
looked  at  troubling  things.  And  Dolores  felt  her 
heart  sinking  within  her.  After  all,  she  had  not 
handled  the  situation  any  too  well.  She  almost 
wished  she  had  killed  Eydal  herself  and  called  it 
self-defense.  At  least  she  had  been  criminally  negli 
gent  in  not  smuggling  along  a  rifle. 

"But  we'll  beat  them  out,"  she  argued  hopefully. 
"We've  got  a  splendid  team,  Peter,  and  I'll  take 
off  my  coat  and  run  behind  the  sledge  as  much  as 
I  can.  Uppy  won 't  dare  play  a  trick  on  us  now,  for 
he  knows  that  if  I  should  miss  him,  "Wapi  would 
tear  the  life  out  of  him  at  a  word  from  me.  We'll 
win  out,  Peter  dear.  See  if  we  don 't ! " 

Peter  hugged  his  thoughts  to  himself.  He  did  not 
tell  her  that  Blake  and  Eydal  would  pursue  with 
a  ten-  or  twelve-dog  team,  and  that  there  was  almost 
no  chance  at  all  of  a  straight  get-away.  Instead, 
he  pulled  her  head  down  and  kissed  her. 

To  Wapi  there  had  come  at  last  a  response  to  the 
great  yearning  that  was  in  him.  Instinct,  summer 
and  winter,  had  drawn  him  south,  had  turned  him 


42  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

always  in  that  direction,  filled  with  the  uneasiness 
of  the  mysterious  something  that  was  calling  to  him 
through  the  years  of  forty  generations  of  his  kind. 
And  now  he  was  going  south.  He  sensed  the  fact 
that  this  journey  would  not  end  at  the  edge  of  the 
Arctic  plain  and  that  he  was  not  to  hunt  caribou  or 
bear.  His  mental  formulae  necessitated  no  process 
of  reasoning.  They  were  simple  and  to  the  point. 
His  world  had  suddenly  divided  itself  into  two  parts ; 
one  contained  the  woman,  and  the  other  his  old 
masters  and  slavery.  And  the  woman  stood  against 
these  masters.  They  were  her  enemies  as  well  as 
his  own.  Experience  had  taught  him  the  power  and 
the  significance  of  firearms,  just  as  it  had  made  him 
understand  the  uses  for  which  spears,  and  harpoons, 
and  whips  were  made.  He  had  seen  the  woman  shoot 
Blake,  and  he  had  seen  her  ready  to  shoot  at  Uppy. 
Therefore  he  understood  that  they  were  enemies  and 
that  all  associated  with  them  were  enemies.  At  a 
word  from  her  he  was  ready  to  spring  ahead  and 
tear  the  life  out  of  the  Eskimo  driver  and  even  out 
of  the  dogs  that  were  pulling  the  sledge.  It  did  not 
take  him  long  to  comprehend  that  the  man  on  the 
sledge  was  a  part  of  the  woman. 

He  hung  well  back,  twenty  or  thirty  paces  behind 
the  sledge,  and  unless  Peter  or  the  woman  called 
to  him,  or  the  sledge  stopped  for  some  reason,  he 
seldom  came  nearer. 

It  took  only  a  word  from  Dolores  to  bring  him 
to  her  side. 

Hour  after  hour  the  journey  continued.    The  plain 


BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY  43 

was  level  as  a  floor,  and  at  intervals  Dolores  would 
run  in  the  trail  that  the  load  might  be  lightened  and 
the  dogs  might  make  better  time.  It  was  then  that 
Peter  watched  Uppy  with  the  revolver,  and  it  was 
also  in  these  intervals — running  close  beside  the 
woman — that  the  blood  in  Wapi's  veins  was  fired 
with  a  riotous  joy. 

For  three  hours  there  was  almost  no  slackening 
in  Uppy's  speed.  The  fourth  and  fifth  were  slower. 
In  the  sixth  and  seventh  the  pace  began  to  tell.  And 
the  plain  was  no  longer  hard  and  level,  swept  like 
a  floor  by  the  polar  winds.  Rolling  undulations 
grew  into  ridges  of  snow  and  ice ;  in  places  the  dogs 
dragged  the  sledge  over  thin  crusts  that  broke  under 
the  runners;  fields  of  drift  snow,  fine  as  shot,  lay 
in  their  way ;  and  in  the  eighth  hour  Uppy  stopped 
the  lagging  dogs  and  held  up  his  two  hands  in  the 
mute  signal  of  the  Eskimo  that  they  could  go  no 
farther  without  a  rest. 

Wapi  dropped  on  his  belly  and  watched.  His  eyea 
followed  Uppy  suspiciously  as  he  strung  up  the  tent 
on  its  whalebone  supports  to  keep  the  bite  of  the  wind 
from  the  sledge  on  which  Dolores  sat  at  Peter's  feet. 
Then  Uppy  built  a  fire  of  kindlings,  and  scraped  up 
a  pot  of  ice  for  tea-water.  After  that,  while  the 
water  was  heating,  he  gave  each  of  the  trace  dogs 
a  frozen  fish.  Dolores  herself  picked  out  one  of 
the  largest  and  tossed  it  to  Wapi.  Then  she  sat 
down  again  and  began  to  talk  to  Peter,  bundled  up 
in  his  furs.  After  a  time  they  ate,  and  drank  hot 
tea,  and  after  he  had  devoured  a  chunk  of  raw  meat 


44 

the  size  of  his  two  fists,  Uppy  rolled  himself  in  Ms 
sleeping  bag  near  the  dogs.  A  little  at  a  time  Wapi 
dragged  himself  nearer  until  his  head  lay  on  Dolores  * 
coat.  After  that  there  was  a  long  silence  broken 
only  by  the  low  voices  of  the  woman  and  the  man, 
and  the  heavy  breathing  of  the  tired  dogs.  Wapi 
himself  dozed  off,  but  never  for  long.  Then  Dolores 
nodded,  and  her  head  drooped  until  it  found  a  pillow 
on  Peter's  shoulder.  Gently  Peter  drew  a  bearskin 
about  her,  and  for  a  long  time  sat  wide-awake, 
guarding  Uppy  and  baring  his  ears  at  intervals  tc 
listen.  A  dozen  times  he  saw  Wapi's  bloodshot  eyes 
looking  at  him,  and  twice  he  put  out  a  hand  tc  the 
dog's  head  and  spoke  to  him  in  a  whisper. 

Even  Peter's  eyes  were  filmed  by  a  growing 
drowsiness  when  Wapi  drew  silently  away  and  slunk 
suspiciously  into  the  night.  There  was  no  yapping 
foxes  here,  forty  miles  from  the  coast.  An  almost 
appalling  silence  hung  under  the  white  stars,  a 
silence  broken  only  by  the  low  and  distant  moaning 
the  wind  always  makes  on  the  barrens.  Wapi  lis 
tened  to  it,  and  he  sniffed  with  his  gray  muzzle 
turned  to  the  north.  And  then  he  whined.  Had 
Dolores  or  Peter  seen  him  or  heard  the  note  in  his 
throat,  they,  too,  would  have  stared  back  over  the 
trail  they  had  traveled.  For  something  was  coming 
to  Wapi.  Faint,  elusive,  and  indefinable  breath  in 
the  air,  he  smelled  it  in  one  moment,  and  the  next 
it  was  gone.  For  many  minutes  he  stood  undecided, 
and  then  he  returned  to  the  sledge,  his  spine  brist 
ling  and  a  growl  in  his  throat. 


45 

Wide-eyed  and  staring,  Peter  was  looking  back. 
"What  is  it,  Wapi?" 

His  voice  aroused  Dolores.  She  sat  up  with  a 
start.  The  growl  had  grown  into  a  snarl  in  Wapi's 
throat. 

"I  think  they  are  coming, "  said  Peter  calmly. 
"You'd  better  rouse  Uppy.  He  hasn't  moved  in  the 
last  two  hours." 

Something  that  was  like  a  sob  came  from  Dolores ' 
lips  as  she  stood  up.  "They're  not  coming,"  she 
whispered.  "They've  stopped — and  they're  build 
ing  a  fire!" 

Not  more  than  a  third  of  a  mile  away  a  point  of 
yellow  flame  flared  up  in  the  night. 

"Give  me  the  revolver,  Peter." 

Peter  gave  it  to  her  without  a  word.  She  went 
to  Uppy,  and  at  the  touch  of  her  foot  he  was  out 
of  his  sleeping-bag,  his  moon-face  staring  at  her. 
She  pointed  back  to  the  fire.  Her  face  was  dead 
white.  The  revolver  was  pointed  straight  at  Tippy's 
heart. 

"If  they  come  up  with  us,  Uppy — you  die!" 

The  Eskimo's  narrow  eyes  widened.  There  was 
murder  in  this  white  woman's  face,  in  the  steadiness 
of  her  hand,  and  in  her  voice.  If  they  came  up  with 
them — he  would  die!  Swiftly  he  gathered  up  his 
sleeping-bag  and  placed  it  on  the  sledge.  Then  he 
roused  the  dogs,  tangled  in  their  traces.  They  rose 
to  their  feet,  sleepy  and  ill-humored.  One  of  them 
snapped  at  his  hand.  Another  snarled  viciously  as 
he  untwisted  a  trace.  Then  one  of  the  yawning 


46  BACK  TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

brutes  caught  the  new  smell  in  the  air,  the  smell 
that  Wapi  had  gathered  when  it  was  a  mile  farther 
off.  He  sniffed.  He  sat  back  on  his  haunches  and 
sent  forth  a  yelping  howl  to  his  comrades  in  the 
other  team.  In  ten  seconds  the  other  five  were 
howling  with  him,  and  scarcely  had  the  tumult  burst 
from  their  throats  when  there  came  a  response  from 
the  fire  half  a  mile  away. 

"My  God!"  gasped  Peter,  under  his  breath. 

Dolores  sprang  to  the  gee-bar,  and  Uppy  lashed 
Ms  long  whip  until  it  cracked  like  a  repeating  rifle 
over  the  pack.  The  dogs  responded  and  sped 
through  the  night.  Behind  them  the  pandemonium 
of  dog  voices  in  the  other  camp  had  ceased.  Men 
had  leaped  into  life.  Fifteen  dogs  were  straighten 
ing  in  the  tandem  trace  of  a  single  sledge. 

Dolores  laughed,  a  sobbing,  broken  laugh,  that 
in  itself  was  a  cry  of  despair.  "Peter,  if  they  come 
up  with  us,  what  shall  we  do?" 

"If  they  overtake  us,"  said  Peter,  "give  me  the 
revolver.  It  is  fully  loaded?" 

"I  have  cartridges " 

For  the  first  time  she  remembered  that  she  had 
not  filled  the  three  empty  chambers.  Crooking  her 
arm  under  the  gee-bar,  she  fumbled  in  her  pocket. 

The  dogs,  refreshed  by  their  sleep  and  urged  by 
Tippy's  whip,  were  tearing  off  the  first  mile  at  a 
great  speed.  The  trail  ahead  of  them  was  level  and 
hard  again.  Uppy  knew  they  were  on  the  edge  of 
the  big  barren  of  the  Lacs  Delesse,  and  he  cracked 
his  whip  just  as  the  off  runner  of  the  sledge  struck 


BACK  TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY  47 

a  hidden  snow-blister.  There  was  a  sudden  lurch, 
and  in  a  vicious  up-shoot  of  the  gee-bar  the  revolver 
was  knocked  from  Dolores '  hand — and  was  gone.  A 
shriek  rose  to  her  lips,  but  she  stifled  it  before  it  was 
given  voice.  Until  this  minute  she  had  not  felt 
the  terror  of  utter  hopelessness  upon  her.  Now  it 
made  her  faint.  The  revolver  had  not  only 
given  her  hope,  but  also  a  steadfast  faith  in  herself. 
From  the  beginning  she  had  made  up  her  mind  how 
she  would  use  it  in  the  end,  even  though  a  few 
mom  ants  before  she  had  asked  Peter  what  they 
would  do. 

Crumpled  down  on  the  sledge,  she  clung  to  Peter, 
and  suddenly  the  inspiration  came  to  her  not  to  let 
him  know  what  had  happened.  Her  arms  tightened 
about  his  shoulders,  and  she  looked  ahead  over  the 
backs  of  the  wolfish  pack,  shivering  as  she  thought 
of  what  Uppy  would  do  could  he  guess  her  loss. 
But  he  was  running  now  for  his  life,  driven  on  by 
his  fear  of  her  unerring  marksmanship — and  Wapi. 
She  looked  over  her  shoulder.  Wapi  was  there,  a 
huge  gray  shadow  twenty  paces  behind.  And  she 
thought  she  heard  a  shout ! 

Peter  was  speaking  to  her.  " Blake's  dogs  are 
tired,"  he  was  saying.  "They  were  just  about  to 
camp,  and  ours  have  had  a  rest.  Perhaps " 

* '  We  shall  beat  them ! ' '  she  interrupted  him.  ' l  See 
how  fast  we  are  going,  Peter!  It  is  splendid!" 

A  rifle-shot  sounded  behind  them.  It  was  not  far 
away,  and  involuntarily  she  clutched  him  tighter. 
Peter  reached  up  a  hand. 


48  BACK   TO   GOD'S    COUNTRY 

"Give  me  the  revolver,  Dolores." 

"No,"  she  protested.  "They  are  not  going  to 
overtake  us." 

"You  must  give  me  the  Revolver,"  he  insisted. 

* i  Peter,  I  can 't.  You  understand.  I  can 't  I  must 
keep  the  revolver." 

She  looked  back  again.  There  was  no  doubt  now. 
Their  pursuers  were  drawing  nearer.  She  heard 
a  voice,  the  la-looking  of  running  Eskimos,  a  faint 
shout  which  she  knew  was  a  white  man's  shout — and 
another  rifle  shot.  Wapi  was  running  nearer.  He 
was  almost  at  the  tail  of  the  sledge,  and  his  red  eyes 
were  fixed  on  her  as  he  ran. 

"Wapi!"  she  cried.    "Wapi!" 

His  jaws  dropped  agape.  She  could  hear  his  pant 
ing  response  to  her  voice. 

A  third  shot — over  their  heads  sped  a  strange 
droning  sound. 

"Wapi,"  she  almost  screamed,  "go  back!  Sick 
'em,  Wapi — sick  'em — sick  'em — sick  'em!"  She 
flung  out  her  arms,  driving  him  back,  repeating  the 
words  over  and  over  again.  She  leaned  over  the 
edge  of  the  sledge,  clinging  to  the  gee-bar.  "Go 
back,  Wapi!  Sick  'em — sick  'em — sick  'em!" 

As  if  in  response  to  her  wild  exhortation,  there 
came  a  sudden  yelping  outcry  from  the  team  be 
hind.  It  was  close  upon  them  now.  Another  ten 
minutes. 

And  then  she  saw  that  Wapi  was  dropping  behind. 
Quickly  he  was  swallowed  up  in  the  starlit  chaos  of 
the  night. 


BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTEY  49 

"Peter,"  she  cried,  sobbingly.  "Peter!" 
Listening  to  the  retreating  sound  of  the  sledge, 
Wapi  stood  a  silent  shadow  in  the  trail.  Then  he 
turned  and  faced  the  north.  He  heard  the  other 
sound  now,  and  ahead  of  it  the  wind  brought  him  a 
smell,  the  smell  of  things  he  hated.  For  many  years 
something  had  been  fighting  itself  toward  under 
standing  within  him,  and  the  yelping  of  dogs  and 
the  taint  in  the  air  of  creatures  who  had  been  his 
slave-masters  narrowed  his  instinct  to  the  one  vital 
point.  Again  it  was  not  a  process  of  reason  but 
the  cumulative  effect  of  things  that  had  happened 
and  were  happening.  He  had  scented  menace  when 
first  he  had  given  warning  of  the  nearness  of  pur 
suers,  and  this  menace  was  no  longer  an  elusive  and 
unseizable  thing  that  had  merely  stirred  the  fires 
of  his  hatred.  It  was  now  a  near  and  physical  fact. 
He  had  tried  to  run  away  from  it — with  the  woman — 
but  it  had  followed  and  was  overtaking  him,  and 
the  yelping  dogs  were  challenging  him  to  fight  as 
they  had  challenged  him  from  the  day  he  was  old 
enough  to  take  his  own  part.  And  now  he  had  some 
thing  to  fight  for.  His  intelligence  gripped  the  fact 
that  one  sledge  was  running  away  from  the  other, 
and  that  the  sledge  which  was  running  away  was 
his  sledge — and  that  for  his  sledge  he  must  fight. 

He  waited,  almost  squarely  in  the  trail.  There 
was  no  longer  the  slinking,  club-driven  attitude  of 
a  creature  at  bay  in  the  manner  in  which  he  stood 
in  the  path  of  his  enemies.  He  had  risen  out  of  his 
serfdom.  The  stinging  slash  of  the  whip  and  his 


50  BACK  TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

dread  of  it  were  gone.  Standing  there  in  the  star 
light  with  his  magnificent  head  thrown  up  and  the 
muscles  of  his  huge  body  like  corded  steel,  the  pass 
ing  spirit  of  Shan  Tung  would  have  taken  him  for 
Tao,  the  Great  Dane.  He  was  not  excited — and  yet 
he  was  filled  with  a  mighty  desire — more  than  that, 
a  tremendous  purpose.  The  yelping  excitement  of  the 
oncoming  Eskimo  dogs  no  longer  urged  him  to  turn 
aside  to  avoid  their  insolent  bluster,  as  he  would  have 
(turned  aside  yesterday  or  the  day  before.  The 
voices  of  his  old  masters  no  longer  sent  him  slink 
ing  out  of  their  way,  a  growl  in  his  throat  and  his 
body  sagging  with  humiliation  and  the  rage  of  his 
slavery.  He  stood  like  a  rock,  his  broad  chest  facing 
them  squarely,  and  when  he  saw  the  shadows  of  them 
racing  up  out  of  the  star-mist  an  eighth  of  a  mile 
away,  it  was  not  a  growl  but  a  whine  that  rose  in 
his  throat,  a  whine  of  low  and  repressed  eagerness, 
of  a  great  yearning  about  to  be  fulfilled.  Two  hun 
dred  yards — a  hundred — eighty — not  until  the  dogs 
were  less  than  fifty  from  him  did  he  move.  And 
then,  like  a  rock  hurled  by  a  mighty  force,  he  was 
at  them. 

He  met  the  onrushing  weight  of  the  pack  breast 
to  breast.  There  was  no  warning.  Neither  men  nor 
dogs  had  seen  the  waiting  shadow.  The  crash  sent 
the  lead-dog  back  with  Wapi's  great  fangs  in  his 
throat,  and  in  an  instant  the  fourteen  dogs  behind 
had  piled  over  them,  tangled  in  their  traces,  yelping 
and  snarling  and  biting,  while  over  them  round- 
faced,  hooded  men  shouted  shrilly  and  struck  with 


BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY  51 

their  whips,  and  from  the  sledge  a  white  man  sprang 
with  a  rifle  in  his  hands.    It  was  Bydal. 

Under  the  mass  of  dogs  Wapi,  the  "Walrus,  heard 
nothing  of  the  shouts  of  men.  He  was  fighting.  He 
was  fighting  as  he  had  never  fought  before  in  all 
the  days  of  his  life.  The  fierce  little  Eskimo  dogs 
had  smelled  him,  and  they  knew  their  enemy.  The 
lead-dog  was  dead.  A  second  Wapi  had  disem 
boweled  with  a  single  slash  of  his  inch-long  fangs. 
He  was  buried  now.  But  his  jaws  met  flesh  and 
bone,  and  out  of  the  squirming  mass  there  rose  fear 
ful  cries  of  agony  that  mingled  hideously  with  the 
bawling  of  men  and  the  snarling  and  yelping  of 
beasts  that  had  not  yet  felt  Wapi's  fangs.  Three 
and  four  at  a  time  they  were  at  him.  He  felt  the 
wolfish  slash  of  their  teeth  in  his  flesh.  In  him  the 
sense  of  pain  was  gone.  His  jaws  closed  on  a  fore 
leg,  and  it  snapped  like  a  stick.  His  teeth  sank  like 
ivory  knives  into  the  groin  of  a  brute  that  had  torn 
a  hole  in  his  side,  and  a  smothered  death-howl  rose 
out  of  the  heap.  A  fang  pierced  his  eye.  Even 
then  no  cry  came  from  Wapi,  the  Walrus.  He 
heaved  upward  with  his  giant  body.  He  found  an 
other  throat,  and  it  was  then  that  he  rose  above 
the  pack,  shaking  the  life  from  his  victim  as  a  terrier 
would  have  shaken  a  rat.  For  the  first  time  the 
Eskimos  saw  him,  and  out  of  their  superstitious 
souls  strange  cries  found  utterance  as  they  sprang 
back  and  shrieked  out  to  Eydal  that  it  was  a  devil 
and  not  a  beast  that  had  waited  for  them  in  the  trail. 
Kydal  threw  up  his  rifle.  The  shot  came.  It  burned 


52  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

a  crease  in  Wapi's  shoulder  and  tore  a  hole  as 
big  as  a  man's  fist  in  the  breast  of  a  dog  about  to 
spring  upon  him  from  behind.  Again  he  was  down, 
and  Rydal  dropped  his  rifle,  and  snatched  a  whip 
from  the  hand  of  an  Eskimo.  Shouting  and  cursing, 
he  lashed  the  pack,  and  in  a  moment  he  saw  a  huge, 
open-jawed  shadow  rise  up  on  the  far  side  and  start 
off  into  the  open  starlight.  He  sprang  back  to  his 
rifle.  Twice  he  fired  at  the  retreating  shadow  before 
it  disappeared.  And  the  Eskimo  dogs  made  no 
movement  to  follow.  Five  of  the  fifteen  were  dead. 
The  remaining  ten,  torn  and  bleeding — three  of  them 
with  legs  that  dragged  in  the  bloody  snow — gathered 
in  a  whipped  and  whimpering  group.  And  the  Es 
kimos,  shivering  in  their  fear  of  this  devil  that  had 
entered  into  the  body  of  Wapi,  the  Walrus,  failed 
to  respond  to  Rydal's  command  when  he  pointed  to 
the  red  trail  that  ran  out  under  the  stars. 

At  Fort  Confidence,  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles 
to  the  south,  there  was  day — day  that  was  like  cold, 
gray  dawn,  the  day  one  finds  just  beyond  the  edge 
of  the  Arctic  night,  in  which  the  sun  hangs  like  a 
pale  lantern  over  the  far  southern  horizon.  In  a 
log-built  room  that  faced  this  bit  of  glorious  red 
glow  lay  Peter,  bolstered  up  in  his  bed  so  that  he 
could  see  it  until  it  faded  from  the  sky.  There  was 
a  new  light  in  his  face,  and  there  was  something  of 
the  old  Peter  back  in  his  eyes.  Watching  the  final 
glow  with  him  was  Dolores,  It  was  their  second 
day. 

Into  this  world,  in  the  twilight  that  was  falling 


53 

swiftly  as  they  watched  the  setting  of  the  sun,  came 
Wapi,  the  Walrus.  Blinded  in  the  eye,  gaunt  with 
hunger  and  exhaustion,  covered  with  wounds,  and 
with  his  great  heart  almost  ready  to  die,  he  came 
at  last  to  the  river  across  which  lay  the  barracks. 
His  vision  was  nearly  gone,  but  under  his  nose  he 
could  still  smell  faintly  the  trail  he  was  following 
until  the  last.  It  led  him  across  the  river.  And  in 
darkness  it  brought  him  to  a  door. 

After  a  little  the  door  opened,  and  with  its  open 
ing  came  at  last  the  fulfilment  of  the  promise  of  his 
dreams — hope,  happiness,  things  to  live  for  in  a 
new,  a  white-man's  world.  For  Wapi,  the  Walrus, 
forty  years  removed  from  Tao  of  Vancouver,  had 
at  last  come  home. 


THE  YELLOW-BACK 

ABOVE  God's  Lake,  where  the  Bent  Arrow  runs 
red  as  pale  blood  under  its  crust  of  ice,  Reese  Beau- 
din  heard  of  the  dog  auction  that  was  to  take  place 
at  Post  Lac  Bain  three  days  later.  It  was  in  the 
cabin  of  Joe  Delesse,  a  trapper,  who  lived  at  Lac 
Bain  during  the  summer,  and  trapped  the  fox  and 
the  lynx  sixty  miles  farther  north  in  this  month  of 
February. 

"Diantre,  but  I  tell  you  it  is  to  be  the  greatest  sale 
of  dogs  that  has  ever  happened  at  Lac  Bain!"  said 
Delesse.  "To  this  Wakao  they  are  coming  from  all 
the  four  directions.  There  will  be  a  hundred  dogs, 
huskies,  and  malamutes,  and  Mackenzie  hounds,  and 
mongrels  from  the  south,  and  I  should  not  wonder 
if  some  of  the  little  Eskimo  devils  were  brought 
from  the  north  to  be  sold  as  breeders.  Surely  you 
will  not  miss  it,  my  friend?" 

"I  am  going  by  way  of  Post  Lac  Bain,"  replied 
Eeese  Beaudin  equivocally. 

But  his  mind  was  not  on  the  sale  of  dogs.  From 
his  pipe  he  puffed  out  thick  clouds  of  smoke,  and 
his  eyes  narrowed  until  they  seemed  like  coals  peer 
ing  out  of  cracks;  and  he  said,  in  his  quiet,  soft 
voice : 

54 


THE  YELLOW-BACK  55 

"Do  yon  know  of  a  man  named  Jacques  Dupont, 
m'sieu?" 

Joe  Delesse  tried  to  peer  through  the  cloud  of 
smoke  at  Eeese  Beaudin's  face. 

"  Yes,  I  know  him.  Does  he  happen  to  be  a  friend 
of  yours?" 

Reese  laughed  softly. 

"I  have  heard  of  him.  They  say  that  he  is  a  devil. 
To  the  west  I  was  told  that  he  can  whip  any  man 
between  Hudson 's  Bay  and  the  Great  Bear,  that  he 
is  a  beast  in  man-shape,  and  that  he  will  surely  be 
at  the  big  sale  at  Lao  Bain." 

On  his  knees  the  huge  hands  of  Joe  Delesse 
clenched  slowly,  gripping  in  their  imaginery  clutch 
a  hated  thing. 

"Oui,  I  know  him,"  he  said.  "I  know  also — 
Elise— his  wife.  See!" 

He  thrust  suddenly  his  two  huge  knotted  hands 
through  the  smoke  that  drifted  between  him  and  the 
stranger  who  had  sought  the  shelter  of  his  cabin 
that  night. 

"See — I  am  a  man  full-grown,  m'sieu — a  man — 
and  yet  I  am  afraid  of  him!  That  is  how  much  of 
a  devil  and  a  beast  in  man-shape  he  is." 

Again  Eeese  Beaudin  laughed  in  his  low,  soft 
voice. 

"And  his  wife,  mon  ami?    Is  she  afraid  of  him?" 

He  had  stopped  smoking.  Joe  Delesse  saw  his 
face.  The  stranger's  eyes  made  him  look  twice  and 
think  twice. 

"You  have  known  her — sometime!" 


56  BACK  TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

"Yes,  a  long  time  ago.  We  were  chilcb's.^  to 
gether.  And  I  have  heard  all  has  not  gone  well 
with  her.  Is  it  so?" 

1  'Does  it  go  well  when  a  dove  is  mated  to  a  vul 
ture,  m'sieu?" 

"I  have  also  heard  that  she  grew  up  to  be  very 
beautiful, "  said  Eeese  Beaudin,  "and  that  Jacques 
Dupont  killed  a  man  for  her.  If  that  is  so 

"It  is  not  so,"  interrupted  Delesse.  "He  drove 
another  man  away — no,  not  a  man,  but  a  yellow- 
livered  coward  who  had  no  more  fight  in  him  than 
a  porcupine  without  quills!  And  yet  she  says  he 
was  not  a  coward.  She  has  always  said,  even  to 
Dupont,  that  it  was  the  way  le  Bon  Dieu  made  him, 
and  that  because  he  was  made  that  way  he  was 
greater  than  all  other  men  in  the  North  Country. 
How  do  I  know?  Because,  m'sieu,  I  am  Elise  Du 
pont 's  cousin." 

Delesse  wondered  why  Reese  Beaudin 's  eyes  were 
glowing  like  living  coals, 

"And  yet — again,  it  is  only  rumor  I  have  heard 
— they  say  this  man,  whoever  he  was,  did  actually 
run  away,  like  a  dog  that  had  been  whipped  and 
was  afraid  to  return  to  its  kennel. ' ' 

"Pst!"  Joe  Delesse  flung  his  great  arms  wide. 
"Like  that — he  was  gone.  And  no  one  ever  saw 
'him  again,  or  heard  of  him  again.  But  I  know  thai 
she  knew — my  cousin,  Elise.  What  word  it  was  he 
left  for  her  at  the  last  she  has  always  kept  in  her 
own  heart,  mon  Dieu,  and  what  a  wonderful  thing 
he  had  to  fight  for!  You  knew  the  child.  But  the 


THE   YELLOW-BACK  57 

woman — non?  She  was  like  an  angel.  Her  eyes, 
when  you  looked  into  them — what  can  I  say,  m'sieu? 
They  made  you  forget.  And  I  have  seen  her  hair, 
unbound,  black  and  glossy  as  the  velvet  side  of  a 
sable,  covering  her  to  the  hips.  And  two  years  ago 
I  saw  Jacques  Dupont's  hands  in  that  hair,  and  he 
was  dragging  her  by  it " 

Something  snapped.  It  was  a  muscle  in  Reese 
Beaudin's  arm.  He  had  stiffened  like  iron. 

"And  you  let  him  do  that!" 

Joe  Delesse  shrugged  his  shoulders.  It  was  a 
ghrug  of  hopelessness,  of  disgust. 

"For  the  third  time  I  interf erred,  and  for  the 
third  time  Jacques  Dupont  beat  me  until  I  was 
nearer  dead  than  alive.  And  since  then  I  have  made 
it  none  of  my  business.  It  was,  after  all,  the  fault 
of  the  man  who  ran  away.  You  see,  m'sieu,  it  was 
like  this:  Dupont  was  mad  for  her,  and  this  man 
who  ran  away — the  Yellow-back — wanted  her,  and 
Elise  loved  the  Yellow-back.  This  Yellow-back  was 
twenty-three  or  four,  and  he  read  books,  and  played 
a  fiddle  and  drew  strange  pictures — and  was  weak 
in  the  heart  when  it  came  to  a  fight.  But  Elise 
loved  him.  She  loved  him  for  those  very  things 
that  made  him  a  fool  and  a  weakling,  m'sieu,  the 
books  and  the  fiddle  and  the  pictures ;  and  she  stood 
up  with  the  courage  for  them  both.  And  she  would 
have  married  him,  too,  and  would  have  fought  for 
him  with  a  club  if  it  had  come  to  that,  when  the 
thing  happened  that  made  him  run  away.  It  was 
at  the  midsummer  carnival,  when  all  the  trappers 


58  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY; 

and  their  wives  and  children  were  at  Lac  Bain. 
And  Dupont  followed  the  Yellow-back  about  like  a 
dog.  He  taunted  him,  he  insulted  him,  he  got  down 
on  his  knees  and  offered  to  fight  him  without  get 
ting  on  his  feet;  and  there,  before  the  very  eyes  of 
Elise,  he  washed  the  Yellow-back's  face  in  the  grease 
of  one  of  the  roasted  caribou!  And  the  Yellow 
back  was  a  man !  Yes,  a  grown  man !  And  it  was 
then  that  Jacques  Dupont  shouted  out  his  challenge 
to  all  that  crowd.  He  would  fight  the  Yellow-back. 
He  would  fight  him  with  his  right  arm  tied  behind 
his  back!  And  before  Elise  and  the  YTellow-back, 
and  all  that  crowd,  friends  tied  his  arm  so  that  it 
was  like  a  piece  of  wood  behind  him,  and  it  was  his 
right  arm,  his  fighting  arm,  the  better  half  of  him 
that  was  gone.  And  even  then  the  YTellow-back  was 
as  white  as  the  paper  he  drew  pictures  on.  Venire 
saint  gris,  but  then  was  his  chance  to  have  killed 
Jacques  Dupont!  Half  a  man  could  have  done  it. 
Did  he,  m'sieu?  No,  he  did  not.  With  his  one  arm; 
and  his  one  hand  Jacques  Dupont  whipped  that 
Yellow-back,  and  he  would  have  killed  him  if  Elise 
had  not  rushed  in  to  save  the  Yellow-back's  purple 
face  from  going  dead  black.  And  that  night  the 
Yellow-back  slunk  away.  Shame?  Yes.  From  that 
night  he  was  ashamed  to  show  his  face  ever  again 
at  Lac  Bain.  And  no  one  knows  where  he  went.  No 
one — except  Elise.  And  her  secret  is  in  her  own 
breast." 

"And  after  thatf "  questioned  Eeese  Beaudin,  in 
a  voice  that  was  scarcely  above  a  whisper. 


THE   YELLOW-BACK  59 

"I  cannot  understand, "  said  Joe  Delesse.  "It 
was  strange,  m'sieu,  very  strange.  I  know  that 
Elise,  even  after  that  coward  ran  away,  still  loved 
him.  And  yet — well,  something  happened.  I  over 
heard  a  terrible  quarrel  one  day  between  Jan  Thie 
bout,  father  of  Elise,  and  Jacques  Dupont.  After 
that  Thiebout  was  very  much  afraid  of  Dupont.  I 
have  my  own  suspicion.  Now  that  Thiebout  is  dead 
it  is  not  wrong  for  me  to  say  what  it  is.  I  think 
Thiebout  killed  the  halfbreed  Bedore  who  was  found 
dead  on  his  trap-line  five  years  ago.  There  was  a 
feud  between  them.  And  Dupont,  discovering  Thie 
bout  '&  secret — well,  you  can  understand  how  easy 
it  would  be  after  that,  m'sieu.  Thiebout 's  winter 
trapping  was  in  that  Burntwood  country,  fifty  miles 
from  neighbor  to  neighbor,  and  very  soon  after 
Bedore 's  death  Jacques  Dupont  became  Thiebout  *s 
partner.  I  know  that  Elise  was  forced  to  marry 
him.  That  was  four  years  ago.  The  next  year  old 
Thiebout  died,  and  in  all  that  time  not  once  has 
Elise  been  to  Post  Lac  Bain!" 

"Like  the  Yellow-back — she  never  returned," 
breathed  Reese  Beaudin. 

"Never.    And  now — it  is  strange " 

"What  is  strange,  Joe  Delesse?" 

"That  for  the  first  time  in  all  these  years  she  is 
going  to  Lac  Bain — to  the  dog  sale." 

Reese  Baudin's  face  was  again  hidden  in  the 
smoke  of  his  pipe.  Through  it  his  voice  came. 

"It  is  a  cold  night,  M'sieu  Delesse.  Hear  the 
wind  howl!" 


60  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

'Yes,  it  is  cold — so  cold  the  foxes  will  not 
run.  My  traps  and  poison-baits  will  need  no  tending 
tomorrow. ' ' 

"Unless  yon  dig  them  out  of  the  drifts." 

"I  will  stay  in  the  cabin." 

"What!    Yon  are  not  going  to  Lac  Bain?" 

"I  doubt  it." 

"Even  though  Elise,  your  cousin,  is  to  be  there?" 

"I  have  no  stomach  for  it,  m'sieu.  Nor  would 
you  were  you  in  my  boots,  and  did  you  know  why 
she  is  going.  Par  les  mille  comes  d'u  didble,  I  can 
not  whip  him  but  I  can  kill  him — and  if  I  went — and 
the  thing  happens  which  I  guess  is  going  to 
happen " 

"Qui?    Surely  you  will  tell  me " 

"Yes,  I  will  tell  you.  Jacques  Dupont  knows  that 
Elise  has  never  stopped  loving  the  Yellow-back. 
I  do  not  believe  she  has  ever  tried  to  hide  it  from 
him.  Why  should  she?  And  there  is  a  rumor, 
m'sieu,  that  the  Yellow-back  will  be  at  the  Lac  Bain 
dog  sale." 

Eeese  Beaudin  rose  slowly  to  his  feet,  and  yawned 
in  that  smoke-filled  cabin. 

"And  if  the  Yellow-back  should  turn  the  tables, 
Joe  Delesse,  think  of  what  a  fine  thing  you  will 
miss,"  he  said. 

Joe  Delesse  also  rose,  with  a  contemptuous  laugh. 

"That  fiddler,  that  picture-drawer,  that  book- 
reader — Pouff!  You  are  tired,  m'sieu,  that  is 
your  bunk." 

Beaudin  held  out  a  hand.    The  bulk  of  the 


THE   YELLOW-BACK  61 

two  stood  out  in  the  lamp-glow,  and  Joe  Delesse 
was  so  much  the  bigger  man  that  his  hand  was  half 
again  the  size  of  Reese  Beaudin's.  They  gripped. 
And  then  a  strange  look  went  over  the  face  of  Joe 
Delesse.  A  cry  came  from  out  of  his  beard.  His 
mouth  grew  twisted.  His  knees  doubled  slowly 
under  him,  and  in  the  space  of  ten  seconds  his  huge 
bulk  was  kneeling  on  the  floor,  while  Reese  Beau- 
din  looked  at  him,  smiling. 

"Has  Jacques  Dupont  a  greater  grip  than  that, 
Joe  Delesse  ?"  he  asked  in  a  voice  that  was  so  soft 
it  was  almost  a  woman's. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  gasped  Delesse.  He  staggered  to 
his  feet,  clutching  his  crushed  hand.  "M'sieu " 

Reese  Beaudin  put  his  hands  to  the  other's  shoul 
ders,  smiling,  friendly. 

"I  will  apologize,  I  will  explain,  mon  ami,"  he 
said.  "But  first,  you  must  tell  me  the  name  of  that 
Yellow-back  who  ran  away  years  ago.  Do  you  re 
member  it?" 

"Qui,  but  what  has  that  to  do  with  my  crushed 
hand!  The  Yellow-back's  name  was  Reese  Beau- 
din " 

"And  I  am  Reese  Beaudin,"  laughed  the  other 
gently. 

On  that  day — the  day  of  Wakoa,  the  dog  sale — 
seven  fat  caribou  were  roasting  on  great  spits  at 
Post  Lac  Bain,  and  under  them  were  seven  fires 
burning  red  and  hot  of  seasoned  birch,  and  around 
the  seven  fires  were  seven  groups  of  men  who  slowly 
turned  the  roasting  carcasses. 


62  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

It  was  the  Big  Day  of  the  mid-winter  festival, 
and  Post  Lac  Bain,  with  a  population  of  twenty  in 
times  of  quiet,  was  a  seething  wilderness  metropolis 
of  two  hundred  excited  souls  and  twice  as  many 
dogs.  From  all  directions  they  had  come,  from 
north  and  south  and  east  and  west ;  from  near  and 
from  far,  from  the  Barrens,  from  the  swamps,  from 
the  farther  forests,  from  river  and  lake  and  hidden 
trail — a  few  white  men,  mostly  French ;  half-breeds 
and  'breeds,  Chippewans,  and  Crees,  and  here  and 
there  a  strange,  dark-visaged  little  interloper  from 
the  north  with  his  strain  of  Eskimo  blood.  Fore 
gathered  were  all  the  breeds  and  creeds  and  fashions 
of  the  wilderness. 

Over  all  this,  pervading  the  air  like  an  incense, 
stirring  the  desire  of  man  and  beast,  floated  the 
aroma  of  the  roasting  caribou.  The  feast-hour  was 
at  hand.  With  cries  that  rose  above  the  last  words 
of  a  wild  song  the  seven  groups  of  men  rushed  to 
seven  pairs  of  props  and  tore  them  away.  The  great 
carcasses  swayed  in  mid-air,  bent  slowly  over  their 
spits,  and  then  crashed  into  the  snow  fifteen  feet 
from  the  fire.  About  each  carcass  five  men  with 
razor-sharp  knives  ripped  off  hunks  of  the  roasted 
flesh  and  passed  them  into  eager  hands  of  the  hungry 
multitude.  First  came  the  women  and  children,  and 
last  the  men. 

On  this  there  peered  forth  from  a  window  in  the 
factor's  house  the  darkly  bearded,  smiling  face  of 
Reese  Beaudin. 

"I  have  seen  him  three  times,  wandering  about 


THE   YELLOW-BACK  63 

in  the  crowd,  seeking  someone,'*  he  said.  "Bien, 
he  shall  find  that  someone  very  soon!" 

In  the  face  of  McDougall,  the  factor,  was  a  strange 
look.  For  he  had  listened  to  a  strange  story,  and 
there  was  still  something  of  shock  and  amazement 
and  disbelief  in  his  eyes. 

" Reese  Beaudin,  it  is  hard  for  me  to  believe." 

"And  yet  you  shall  find  that  it  is  true,"  smiled 
Reese. 

"He  will  kill  you.    He  is  a  monster — a  giant!" 

"I  shall  die  hard,"  replied  Reese. 

He  turned  from  the  window  again,  and  took  from 
the  table  a  violin  wrapped  in  buckskin,  and  softly 
he  played  one  of  their  old  love  songs.  It  was  not 
much  more  than  a  whisper,  and  yet  it  was  filled  with 
a  joyous  exultation.  He  laid  the  violin  down  when 
he  was  finished,  and  laughed,  and  filled  his  pipe, 
and  lighted  it. 

"It  is  good  for  a  man's  soul  to  know  that  a  woman 
loves  him,  and  has  been  true,"  he  said.  "Mon  pere, 
will  you  tell  me  again  what  she  said?  It  is  strength 
for  me — and  I  must  soon  be  going." 

McDougall  repeated,  as  if  under  a  strain  from 
which  he  could  not  free  himself: 

"She  came  to  me  late  last  night,  unknown  to  Du- 
pont.  She  had  received  your  message,  and  knew 
you  were  coming.  And  I  tell  you  again  that  I  saw 
something  in  her  eyes  which  makes  me  afraid !  She 
told  me,  then,  that  her  father  killed  Bedore  in  a 
quarrel,  and  that  she  married  Dupont  to  save  him 
from  the  law — and  kneeling  there,  with  her  hand 


64:  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

on  the  cross  at  her  breast,  she  swore  that  each  day 
of  her  life  she  has  let  Dupont  know  that  she  hates 
him,  and  that  she  loves  you,  and  that  some  day  Eeese 
Beaudin  would  return  to  avenge  her.  Yes,  she  told 
him  that — I  know  it  by  what  I  saw  in  her  eyes.  With 
that  cross  clutched  in  her  fingers  she  swore  that  she 
had  suffered  torture  and  shame,  and  that  never  a 
word  of  it  had  she  whispered  to  a  living  soul,  that 
she  might  turn  the  passion  of  Jacques  Dupont 's 
black  heart  into  a  great  hatred.  And  today — 
Jacques  Dupont  will  kill  you!" 

"I  shall  die  hard,"  Reese  repeated  again. 

He  tucked  the  violin  in  its  buckskin  covering  under 
his  arm.  From  the  table  he  took  his  cap  and  placed 
it  on  his  head. 

In  a  last  effort  McDougall  sprang  from  his  chair 
and  caught  the  other's  arm. 

11  Reese  Beaudin — you  are  going  to  your  death! 
As  factor  of  Lac  Bain — agent  of  justice  under 
power  of  the  Police — I  forbid  it  I " 

"So-o-o-o,"  spoke  Reese  Beaudin  gently.  "Mon 
pere '' 

He  unbuttoned  his  coat,  which  had  remained  but 
toned.  Under  the  coat  was  a  heavy  shirt;  and  the 
shirt  he  opened,  smiling  into  the  factor's  eyes,  and 
McDougall 's  face  froze,  and  the  breath  was  cut  short 
on  his  lips. 

4 'That! "he  gasped. 

Reese  Beaudin  nodded. 

Then  he  opened  the  door  and  went  out. 

Joe  Delesse  had  been  watching  the  factor's  house, 


THE  YELLOW-BACK  65 

and  he  worked  his  way  slowly  along  the  edge  of 
the  feasters  so  that  he  might  casually  come  into  the 
path  of  Reese  Beaudin.  And  there  was  one  other 
man  who  also  had  watched,  and  who  came  in  the 
same  direction.  He  was  a  stranger,  tall,  closely 
hooded,  his  mnstached  face  an  Indian  bronze.  No 
one  had  ever  seen  him  at  Lac  Bain  before,  yet  in  the 
excitement  of  the  carnival  the  fact  passed  without 
conjecture  or  significance.  And  from  the  cabin  of 
Henri  Paquette  another  pair  of  eyes  saw  Reese 
Beaudin,  and  Mother  Paquette  heard  a  sob  that  in 
itself  was  a  prayer. 

In  and  out  among  the  devourers  of  caribou-flesh, 
scanning  the  groups  and  the  ones  and  the  twos  and 
the  threes,  passed  Jacques  Dupont,  and  with  him 
walked  his  friend,  one-eyed  Layonne.  Layonne  was 
a  big  man,  but  Dupont  was  taller  by  half  a  head. 
The  brutishness  of  his  face  was  hidden  under  a 
coarse  red  beard ;  but  the  devil  in  him  glowered  from 
his  deep-set,  inhuman  eyes ;  it  walked  in  his  gait,  in 
the  hulk  of  his  great  shoulders,  in  the  gorilla-like 
slouch  of  his  hips.  His  huge  hands  hung  partly 
clenched  at  his  sides.  His  breath  was  heavy  with 
whisky  that  Layonne  himself  had  smuggled  in,  and 
in  his  heart  was  black  murder. 

"He  has  not  come!'  he  cried  for  the  twentieth 
time.  ' l  He  has  not  come ! ' 9 

He  moved  on,  and  Reese  Beaudin — ten  feet  away 
— turned  and  smiled  at  Joe  Delesse  with  triumph 
in  his  eyes.  He  moved  nearer. 

"Did  I  not  tell  you  he  would  not  find  in  me  that 


66  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

narrow-shouldered,  smooth-faced  stripling  of  five 
years  ago?"  he  asked.  "N'est-ce  pas,  friend  De 
lesse?" 

The  face  of  Joe  Delesse  was  heavy  with  a  somber 
fear. 

"His  fist  is  like  a  wood-sledge,  m'sieu." 

"So  it  was  years  ago." 

"His  forearm  is  as  big  as  the  calf  of  your  leg." 

" ' Oui,  friend  Delesse,  it  is  the  forearm  of  a  giant." 

"He  is  half  again  your  weight." 

"Or  more,  friend  Delesse. ' 

"He  will  kill  you!  As  the  great  God  lives,  he 
will  kill  you!" 

"I  shall  die  hard,"  repeated  Reese  Beaudin  for 
the  third  time  that  day. 

Joe  Delesse  turned  slowly,  doggedly.  His  voice 
rumbled. 

"The  sale  is  about  to  begin,  m'sieu.    See !" 

A  man  had  mounted  the  log  platform  raised  to 
the  height  of  a  man's  shoulders  at  the  far  end  of 
the  clearing.  It  was  Henri  Paquette,  master  of  the 
day's  ceremonies,  and  appointed  auctioneer  of  the 
great  wakao.  A  man  of  many  tongues  was  Paquette. 
To  his  lips  he  raised  a  great  megaphone  of  birch- 
bark,  and  sonorously  his  call  rang  out — in  French, 
in  Cree,  in  Chippewan,  and  the  packed  throng  about 
the  caribou-fires  heaved  like  a  living  billow,  and  to 
a  man  and  a  woman  and  a  child  it  moved  toward 
the  appointed  place. 

' '  The  time  has  come, ' '  said  Reese  Beaudin.  * '  And 
all  Lac  Bain  shall  see!" 


THE   YELLOW-BACK  671 

Behind  them — watching,  always  watching — fol 
lowed  the  bronze-faced  stranger  in  his  close-drawn 
hood. 

For  an  hour  the  men  of  Lac  Bain  gathered  close- 
wedged  about  the  log  platform  on  which  stood  Henri 
Paquette  and  his  Indian  helper.  Behind  the  men 
were  the  women  and  children,  and  through  the  cor 
don  there  ran  a  babiche-roped  pathway  along  which 
the  dogs  were  brought. 

The  platform  was  twenty  feet  square,  with  the 
floor  side  of  the  logs  hewn  flat,  and  there  was  no 
lack  of  space  for  the  gesticulation  and  wild  panto 
mime  of  Paquette.  In  one  hand  he  held  a  notebook, 
and  in  the  other  a  pencil.  In  the  notebook  the  sales 
of  twenty  dogs  were  already  tabulated,  and  the 
prices  paid. 

Anxiously,  Eeese  Beaudin  was  waiting.  Each 
time  that  a  new  dog  came  up  he  looked  at  Joe  De- 
lesse,  but  as  yet  Joe  had  failed  to  give  the  signal. 

On  the  platform  the  Indian  was  holding  two  mala- 
mutes  in  leash  now  and  Paquette  was  crying,  in  a 
well  simulated  fit  of  great  fury: 

"What,  you  cheap  kirnootisks,  will  you  let  this 
pair  of  malamutes  go  for  seven  mink  and  a  cross 
fox.  Are  you  men?  Are  you  poverty-stricken ?  Are 
you  blind?  A  breed  dog  and  a  male  giant  for  seven 
mink  and  a  cross  fox?  Non,  I  will  buy  them  myself 
first,  and  kill  them,  and  use  their  flesh  for  dog-feed, 
and  their  hides  for  fools*  caps!  I  will " 

"Twelve  mink  and  a  Number  Two  Cross, "  came 
a  voice  out  of  the  crowd. 


68  BACK  TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

"Twelve  mink  and  a  Number  One,"  shouted  an 
other. 

"A  little  better — a  little  better !' '  wailed  Paquette. 
"You  are  waking  up,  but  slowly — mon  Dieu,  so 
slowly!  Twelve  mink  and " 

A  voice  rose  in  Cree : 

"Nesi-tu-now-unisk!" 

Paquette  gave  a  triumphant  yell. 

"The  Indian  beats  you!  The  Indian  from  Little 
Neck  Lake — an  Indian  beats  the  white  man!  He 
offers  twenty  beaver — prime  skins!  And  beaver 
are  wanted  in  Paris  now.  They're  wanted  in  Lon 
don.  Beaver  and  gold — they  are  the  same!  But 
they  are  the  price  of  one  dog  alone.  Shall  they 
both  go  at  that?  Shall  the  Indian  have  them  for 
twenty  beaver — twenty  beaver  that  may  be  taken 
from  a  single  house  in  a  day — while  it  has  taken 
these  malamutes  two  and  a  half  years  to  grow?  I 
say,  you  cheap  Mmootisks " 

And  then  an  amazing  thing  happened.  It  was  like 
a  bomb  falling  in  that  crowded  throng  of  wondering 
and  amazed  forest  people. 

It  was  the  closely  hooded  stranger  who  spoke. 

"I  will  give  a  hundred  dollars  cash,"  he  said. 

A  look  of  annoyance  crossed  Reese  Beaudin's  face. 
He  was  close  to  the  bronze-faced  stranger,  and  edged 
nearer. 

"Let  the  Indian  have  them,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice.  "It  is  Meewe.  I  knew  him  years  ago.  He 
has  carried  me  on  his  back.  He  taught  me  first  to 
draw  pictures." 


THE  YELLOW-BACK  69 

"But  they  are  powerful  dogs,"  objected  tEe 
stranger.  "My  team  needs  them." 

The  Cree  had  risen  higher  out  of  the  crowd.  One 
arm  rose  above  his  head.  He  was  an  Indian  who 
had  seen  fifty  years  of  the  forests,  and  his  face  was 
the  face  of  an  Egyptian. 

"Nesi-tu-now  Nesoo-sap  umisk!"  he  proclaimed. 

Henri  Paquette  hopped  excitedly,  and  faced  the 
stranger. 

" Twenty- two  beaver,"  he  challenged.  "Twenty- 
two " 

"Let  Meewe  have  them,"  replied  the  hooded 
Btranger. 

Three  minutes  later  a  single  dog  was  pulled  up 
on  the  log  platform.  He  was  a  magnificent  beast, 
and  a  rumble  of  approval  ran  through  the 
orowd. 

The  face  of  Joe  Delesse  was  gray.  He  wet  his 
lips.  Reese  Beaudin,  watching  him,  knew  that  the 
time  had  come.  And  Joe  Delesse,  seeing  no  way  of 
escape,  whispered: 

"It  is  her  dog,  m'sieu.  It  is  Parka — and  Dupont 
sells  him  today  to  show  her  that  he  is  master." 

Already  Paquette  was  advertising  the  virtues  of 
Parka  when  Reese  Beaudin,  in  a  single  leap,  mounted 
the  log  platform,  and  stood  beside  him. 

"Wait!"  he  cried. 

There  fell  a  silence,  and  Reese  said,  loud  enough 
for  all  to  hear: 

"M'sieu  Paquette,  I  ask  the  privilege  of  examining 
this  dog  that  I  want  to  buy." 


70  BACK  TO   GOD'S   COUNTED 

At  last  lie  straightened,  and  all  who  faced  him 
saw  the  smiling  sneer  on  his  lips. 

"Who  is  it  that  offers  this  worthless  cur  for 
sale?"  Lac  Bain  heard  him  say.  "P-s-s-st — it  is  a 
woman's  dog!  It  is  not  worth  bidding  for!" 

"Yon  lie!"  Dupont 's  voice  rose  in  a  savage  roar. 
His  huge  shoulders  bulked  over  those  about  him. 
He  crowded  to  the  edge  of  the  platform.  ' l  You  lie ! " 

"He  is  a  woman's  dog,"  repeated  Eeese  Beaudin 
without  excitement,  yet  so  clearly  that  every  ear 
heard.  "He  is  a  woman's  pet,  and  M'sieu  Dupont 
most  surely  does  lie  if  he  denies  it!" 

So  far  as  memory  went  back  no  man  at  Lac  Bain 
that  day  had  ever  heard  another  man  give  Jacques 
Dupont  the  lie.  A  thrill  swept  those  who  heard  and 
understood.  There  was  a  great  silence,  in  that 
silence  men  near  him  heard  the  choking  rage  in  Du 
pont 's  great  chest.  He  was  staring  up — straight  up 
into  the  smiling  face  of  Eeese  Beaudin ;  and  in  that 
moment  he  saw  beyond  the  glossy  black  beard,  and 
amazement  and  unbelief  held  him  still.  In  the  next, 
Eeese  Beaudin  had  the  violin  in  his  hands.  He  flung 
off  the  buckskin,  and  in  a  flash  the  instrument  was 
at  his  shoulder. 

"See!  I  will  play,  and  the  woman's  pet  shall 
sing!" 

And  once  more,  after  five  years,  Lac  Bain  listened 
to  the  magic  of  Eeese  Beaudin 's  violin.  And  it  was 
Elise's  old  love  song  that  he  played.  He  played  it, 
smiling  down  into  the  eyes  of  a  monster  whose  face 
was  turning  from  red  to  black;  yet  he  did  not  play 


THE   YELLOW-BACK  71 

it  to  the  end,  nor  a  quarter  of  it,  for  suddenly  a 
voice  shouted: 

"It  is  Reese  Beaudin — come  back!" 

Joe  Delesse,  paralyzed,  speechless,  could  have 
sworn  it  was  the  hooded  stranger  who  shouted;  and 
then  he  remembered,  and  flung  up  his  great  arms, 
and  bellowed: 

"Oui — by  the  Saints,  it  is  Reese  Beaudin — Reese 
Beaudin  come  back!" 

Suddenly  as  it  had  begun  the  playing  ceased,  and 
Henri  Paquette  found  himself  with  the  violin  in  his 
hands.  Reese  Beaudin  turned,  facing  them  all,  the 
wintry  sun  glowing  in  his  beard,  his  eyes  smiling,  his 
head  high — unfraid  now,  more  fearless  than  any 
other  man  that  had  ever  set  foot  in  Lac  Bain.  And 
McDougall,  with  his  arm  touching  Elise's  hair,  felt 
the  wild  and  throbbing  pulse  of  her  body.  This  day 
— this  hour — this  minute  in  which  she  stood  still, 
Tmbreathing — had  confirmed  her  belief  in  Reese 
Beaudin.  As  she  had  dreamed,  so  had  he  risen. 
First  of  all  the  men  in  the  world  he  stood  there  now, 
just  as  he  had  been  first  in  the  days  when  she  had 
loved  his  dreams,  his  music,  and  his  pictures.  To 
her  he  was  the  old  god,  more  splendid, — for  he  had 
risen  above  fear,  and  he  was  facing  Dupont  now  with 
that  strange  quiet  smile  on  his  lips.  And  then,  all 
at  once,  her  soul  broke  its  fetters,  and  over  the 
women's  heads  she  reached  out  her  arms,  and  all 
there  heard  her  voice  in  its  triumph,  its  joy,  its  fear. 

"Reese!    Reese — my  sakedkun!" 

Over  the  heads  of  all  the  forest  people  she  called 


72  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

him  beloved!  Like  the  fang  of  an  adder  the  word 
stung  Dupont's  brain.  And  like  fire  touched  to 
powder,  swiftly  as  lightning  illumines  the  sky,  the 
glory  of  it  blazed  in  Eeese  Beaudin  's  face. 

And  all  that  were  there  heard  him  clearly: 

"I  am  Eeese  Beaudin.  I  am  the  Yellow-back.  I 
have  returned  to  meet  a  man  you  all  know — Jacques 
Dupont.  He  is  a  monkey-man — a  whipper  of  boys, 
a  stealer  of  women,  a  cheat,  a  coward,  a  thing  so 
foul  the  crows  will  not  touch  him  when  he  dies " 

There  was  a  roar.  It  was  not  the  roar  of  a  man, 
but  of  a  beast — and  Jacques  Dupont  was  on  the  plat 
form! 

Quick  as  Dupont's  movement  had  been  it  was  no 
swifter  than  that  of  the  closely-hooded  stranger. 
He  was  as  tall  as  Dupont,  and  about  him  there  was 
an  air  of  authority  and  command. 

"Wait,"  he  said,  ajid  placed  a  hand  on  Dupont's 
Keaving  chest  His  smile  was  cold  as  ice.  Never 
had  Dupont  seen  eyes  so  like  the  pale  blue  of  steel. 
"M'sieu  Dupont,  you  are  about  to  avenge  a  great 
insult.  It  must  be  done  fairly.  If  you  have  weap 
ons,  throw  them  away.  I  will  search  this — this  Reese 
Beaudin,  as  he  calls  himself!  And  if  there  is  to  be 
a  fight,  let  it  be  a  good  one.  Strip  yourself  to  that 
great  garment  you  have  on,  friend  Dupont.  See, 
our  friend — this  Reese  Beaudin — is  already  strip 
ping!" 

He  was  unbuttoning  the  giant's  heavy  Hudson's 
Bay  coat  He  pulled  it  off,  and  drew  Dupont's  knife 
from  its  sheath.  Paquette,  like  a  stunned  oat  that 


THE   YELLOW-BACK  73 

had  recovered  its  ninth  life,  was  scrambling  from 
the  platform.  The  Indian  was  already  gone.  And 
Reese  Beaudin  had  tossed  his  coat  to  Joe  Delesse, 
and  with  it  his  cap.  His  heavy  shirt  was  closely  but 
toned;  and  not  only  was  it  buttoned,  Delesse  ob 
served,  but  also  was  it  carefully  pinned.  And  even 
now,  facing  that  monster  who  would  soon  be  at  him, 
Reese  Beaudin  was  smiling. 

For  a  moment  the  closely  hooded  stranger  stood 
between  them,  and  Jacques  Dupont  crouched  him 
self  for  his  vengeance.  Never  to  the  people  of  Lac 
Bain  had  he  looked  more  terrible.  He  was  the 
gorilla-lighter,  the  beast  fighter,  the  fighter  who 
fights  as  the  wolf,  the  bear  and  the  cat — crushing 
out  life,  breaking  bones,  twisting,  snapping,  inun 
dating  and  destroying  with  his  great  weight  and  his 
monstrous  strength.  He  was  a  hundred  pounds 
heavier  than  Reese  Beaudin.  On  his  stooping  shoul 
ders  he  could  carry  a  tree.  With  his  giant  hands 
he  could  snap  a  two-inch  sapling.  With  one  hand 
alone  he  had  set  a  bear-trap.  And  with  that  mighty 
strength  he  fought  as  the  cave-man  fought.  It  was 
his  boast  there  was  no  trick  of  the  Chippewan,  the 
Cree,  the  Eskimo  or  the  forest  man  that  he  did  not 
know.  And  yet  Reese  Beaudin  stood  calmly,  waiting 
for  him,  and  smiling! 

In  another  moment  the  hooded  stranger  was  gone, 
and  there  was  none  between  them. 

"A  long  time  I  have  waited  for  this,  m'sieu,"  said 
Reese,  for  Dupont 's  ears  alone.  "Five  years  is  a 
long  time.  And  my  Elise  still  loves  me." 


74  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

Still  more  like  a  gorilla  Jacques  Dupont  crept  upon 
him.  His  face  was  twisted  by  a  rage  to  which  he  could 
no  longer  give  voice.  Hatred  and  jealousy  robbed 
his  eyes  of  the  last  spark  of  the  thing  that  was 
human.  His  great  hands  were  hooked,  like  an  eagle's 
talons.  His  lips  were  drawn  back,  like  a  beast's. 
Through  his  red  beard  yellow  fangs  were  bared. 

And  Reese  Beaudin  no  longer  smiled.  He 
laughed ! 

"  Until  I  went  away  and  met  real  men,  I  never 
knew  what  a  pig  of  a  man  you  were,  M'sieu  Du 
pont,"  he  taunted  amiably,  as  though  speaking  in 
jest  to  a  friend.  "You  remind  me  of  an  aged  and 
over-fat  porcupine  with  his  big  paunch  and  crooked 
arms.  What  horror  must  it  have  been  for  my  Elise 
to  have  lived  in  sight  of  such  a  beast  as  you ! ' ' 

"With  a  bellow  Dupont  was  at  him.  And  swifter 
than  eyes  had  ever  seen  man  move  at  Lac  Bain 
before,  Reese  Beaudin  was  out  of  his  way,  and  be 
hind  him;  and  then,  as  the  giant  caught  himself  at 
the  edge  of  the  platform,  and  turned,  he  received  a 
blow  that  sounded  like  the  broadside  of  a  paddle 
striking  water.  Reese  Beaudin  had  struck  him  with 
the  flat  of  his  unclenched  hand! 

A  murmur  of  incedulity  rose  out  of  the  crowd. 
To  the  forest  man  such  a  blow  was  the  deadliest  of 
insults.  It  was  calling  him  an  Iskivao — a  woman — 
a  weakling — a  thing  too  contemptible  to  harden  one 's 
fist  against.  But  the  murmur  died  in  an  instant. 
For  Reese  Beaudin,  making  as  if  to  step  back,  shot 
suddenly  forward — straight  through  the  giaotte 


THE   YELLOW-BACK  75 

crooked  arms — and  it  was  his  fist  this  time  that 
landed  squarely  between  the  eyes  of  Dupont.  The 
monster's  head  went  back,  his  great  body  wavered, 
and  then  suddenly  he  plunged  backward  off  the  plat 
form  and  fell  with  a  crash  to  the  ground. 

A  yell  went  up  from  the  hooded  stranger.  Joe 
Delesse  split  his  throat.  The  crowd  drowned  Reese 
Beaudin's  voice.  But  above  it  all  rose  a  woman *s 
voice  shrieking  forth  a  name. 

And  then  Jacques  Dupont  was  on  the  platform 
again.  In  the  moments  that  followed  one  could  al 
most  hear  his  neighbor's  heart  beat.  Nearer  and  still 
nearer  to  each  other  drew  the  two  men.  And  now 
Dupont  crouched  still  more,  and  Joe  Delesse  held 
his  breath.  He  noticed  that  Reese  Beaudin  was 
standing  almost  on  the  tips  of  his  toes — that  each 
instant  he  seemed  prepared,  like  a  runner,  for  sud 
den  flight.  Five  feet — four — and  Dupont  leapt  in, 
his  huge  arms  swinging  like  the  limb  of  a  tree,  and 
his  weight  following  with  crushing  force  behind  his 
blow.  For  an  instant  it  seemed  as  though  Reese 
Beaudin  had  stood  to  meet  that  fatal  rush,  but  in 
that  same  instant — so  swiftly  that  only  the  hooded 
stranger  knew  what  had  happened — he  was  out  of 
the  way,  and  his  left  arm  seemed  to  shoot  down 
ward,  and  then  up,  and  then  his  right  straight  out, 
and  then  again  his  left  arm  downward,  and  up — 
and  it  was  the  third  blow,  all  swift  as  lightning,  that 
brought  a  yell  from  the  hooded  stranger.  For 
though  none  but  the  stranger  had  seen  it,  Jacques 
Dupont 's  head  snapped  back — and  all  saw  the  fourth 


76  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

'blow  that  sent  him  reeling  like  a  man  struck  by  a 
club. 

There  was  no  sound  now.  A  mental  and  a  vocal 
paralysis  seized  upon  the  inhabitants  of  Lac  Barn. 
Never  had  they  seen  fighting  like  this  fighting  of 
Eeese  Beaudin.  Until  now  had  they  lived  to  see  the 
science  of  the  sawdust  ring  pitted  against  the  brute 
force  of  Brobdingnagian,  of  Antaeus  and  Goliath. 
For  Eeese  Beaudin  'a  fighting  was  a  fighting  with 
out  tricks  that  they  could  see.  He  used  his  fists,  and 
his  fists  alone.  He  was  like  a  dancing  man.  And 
suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  the  miracle,  they  saw 
Jacques  Dupont  go  down.  And  the  second  miracle 
was  that  Eeese  Beaudin  did  not  leap  on  him  when  he 
had  fallen.  He  stood  back  a  little,  balancing  him 
self  in  that  queer  fashion  on  the  balls  and  toes  of 
his  feet.  But  no  sooner  was  Dupont  up  than  Eeese 
Beaudin  was  in  again,  with  the  swiftness  of  a  cat, 
and  they  could  hear  the  blows,  like  solid  shots,  and 
Dupont 's  arms  waved  like  tree-tops,  and  a  second 
time  he  was  off  the  platform. 

He  was  staggering  when  he  rose.  The  blood  ran 
in  streams  from  his  mouth  and  nose.  His  beard 
dripped  with  it.  His  yellow  teeth  were  caved  in. 

This  time  he  did  not  leap  upon  the  platform — he 
clambered  back  to  it,  and  the  hooded  stranger  gave 
him  a  lift  which  a  few  minutes  before  Dupont  would 
have  resented  as  an  insult. 

"Ah,  it  has  come,"  said  the  stranger  to  Delesse. 
"He  is  the  best  close-in  fighter  in  all " 

He  did  not  finish, 


THE   YELLOW-BACK  77 

"I  could  kill  you  now — kill  you  with  a  single 
blow,"  said  Keese  Beaudin  in  a  moment  when  the 
giant  stood  swaying.  "But  there  is  a  greater  pun 
ishment  in  store  for  you,  and  so  I  shall  let  you  live !" 

And  now  Reese  Beaudin  was  facing  that  part  of 
the  crowd  where  the  woman  he  loved  was  standing. 
He  was  breathing  deeply.  But  he  was  not  winded. 
His  eyes  were  black  as  night,  his  hair  wind-blown. 
...He  looked  straight  over  the  heads  between  him  and 
she  whom  Dupont  had  stolen  from  him. 

Eeese  Beaudin  raised  his  arms,  and  where  there 
had  been  a  murmur  of  voices  there  was  now  silence. 

For  the  first  time  the  stranger  threw  back  his 
hood.  He  was  unbuttoning  his  heavy  coat. 

And  Joe  Delesse,  looking  up,  saw  that  Reese  Beau- 
din  was  making  a  mighty  effort  tc  quiet  a  strange 
excitement  within  his  breast.  And  then  there  was 
a  rending  of  cloth  and  of  buttons  and  of  pins  as  in 
one  swift  movement  he  tore  the  shirt  from  his  own 
ibreast — exposing  to  the  eyes  of  Lac  Bain  blood-red 
in  the  glow  of  the  winter  sun,  the  crimson  badge  of 
the  Royal  Northwest  Mounted  Police! 

And  above  the  gasp  that  swept  the  multitude, 
above  the  strange  cry  of  the  woman,  his  voice  rose : 

"I  am  Reese  Beaudin,  the  Yellow-back.  I  am 
'Reese  Beaudin,  who  ran  away.  I  am  Reese  Beau- 
din, — Sergeant  in  His  Majesty's  Royal  Northwest 
Mounted  Police,  and  in  the  name  of  the  law  I  arrest 
Jacques  Dupont  for  the  murder  of  Francois  Bedore, 
who  was  killed  on  his  trap-line  five  years  ago! 
Fitzgerald " 


78  BACK  TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY. 

The  hooded  stranger  leaped  upon  the  platform,. 
His  heavy  coat  fell  off.  Tall  and  grim  he  stood  in 
the  scarlet  jacket  of  the  Police.  Steel  clinked  in  his 
hands.  And  Jacques  Dupont,  terror  in  his  heart, 
was  trying  to  see  as  he  groped  to  his  knees.  The 
steel  snapped  over  his  wrists. 

And  then  he  heard  a  voice  close  over  him.  It  was 
the  voice  of  Reese  Beaudin. 

"And  this  is  your  final  punishment,  Jacques  Du- 
pont — to  be  hanged  by  the  neck  until  you  are  dead. 
For  Bedore  was  not  dead  when  Elise's  father  left 
him  after  their  fight  on  the  trap-line.  It  was  you 
who  saw  the  fight,  and  finished  the  killing,  and  laid 
the  crime  on  Elise's  father.  Mukoki,  the  Indian, 
saw  you.  It  is  my  day,  Dupont,  and  I  have  waited 
long " 

The  rest  Dupont  did  not  hear.  For  up  from  the 
crowd  there  went  a  mighty  roar.  And  through  it 
a  woman  was  making  her  way  with  outreaching 
arms — and  behind  her  followed  the  factor  of  Lac 
Bain. 


THE  FIDDLING  MAX 

BREATJLT'S  cough  was  not  pleasant  to  near.  A 
cough  possesses  manifold  and  almost  unclassifiable 
diversities.  But  there  is  only  one  cough  when  a 
man  lias  a  bullet  through  his  lungs  and  is  measuring 
his  life  by  minutes,  perhaps  seconds.  Yet  Breault, 
even  as  he  coughed  the  red  stain  from  his  lips,  was 
not  afraid.  Many  times  he  had  found  himself  in 
the  presence  of  death,  and  long  ago  it  had  ceased 
to  frighten  him.  Some  day  he  had  expected  to  come 
under  the  black  shadow  of  it  himself — not  in  a  quiet 
and  peaceful  way,  but  all  at  once,  with  a  shock. 
And  the  time  had  come.  He  knew  that  he  was  dying ; 
and  he  was  calm.  More  than  that — in  dying  he  was 
achieving  a  triumph.  The  red-hot  death-sting  in  his 
lung  had  given  birth  to  a  frightful  thought  in  his 
sickening  brain.  The  day  of  his  great  opportunity 
was  at  hand.  The  hour — the  minute. 

A  last  flush  of  the  pale  afternoon  sun  lighted  up 
his  black-bearded  face  as  his  eyes  turned,  with  their 
new  inspiration,  to  his  sledge.  It  was  a  face  that 
one  would  remember — not  pleasantly,  perhaps,  but 
as  a  fixture  in  a  shifting  memory  of  things ;  a  face 
strong  with  a  brute  strength,  implacable  in  its  hard 

79 


80  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

lines,  emotionless  almost,  and  beyond  that,  a  mys 
tery. 

It  was  the  best  known  face  in  all  that  part  of  the 
northland  which  reaches  up  from  Fort  McMurray 
to  Lake  Athabasca  and  westward  to  Fond  du  Lac 
and  the  Wholdais  country.  For  ten  years  Breault 
had  made  that  trip  twice  a  year  with  the  northern 
mails.  In  all  its  reaches  there  was  not  a  cabin  he 
did  not  know,  a  face  he  had  not  seen,  or  a  name  he' 
could  not  speak;  yet  there  was  not  a  man,  woman, 
or  child  who  welcomed  him  except  for  what  he 
brought.  But  the  government  had  found  its  faith 
in  him  justified.  The  police  at  their  lonely  outposts 
had  come  to  regard  his  comings  and  goings  as  de 
pendable  as  day  and  night.  They  blessed  him  for 
his  punctuality,  and  not  one  of  them  missed  him 
tfhen  he  was  gone.  A  strange  man  was  Breault. 

With  his  back  against  a  tree,  where  he  had 
propped  himself  after  the  first  shock  of  the  bullet 
in  his  lung,  he  took  a  last  look  at  life  with  a  pas 
sionless  imperturbability.  If  there  was  any  emo 
tion  at  all  in  his  face  it  was  one  of  vindictiveness — 
an  emotion  roused  by  an  intense  and  terrible  hatred 
that  in  this  hour  saw  the  fulfilment  of  its  vengeance. 
Few  men  nursed  a  hatred  as  Breault  had  nursed  his. 
And  it  gave  him  strength  now,  when  another  man 
would  have  died. 

He  measured  the  distance  between  himself  and  the 
sledge.  It  was,  perhaps,  a  dozen  paces.  The  dogs 
were  still  standing,  tangled  a  little  in  their  traces, 
— eight  of  them, — wide-chested,  thin  at  the  groins, 


THE   FIDDLING  MAN  81 

a  wolfish  horde,  built  for  endurance  and  speed.  On 
the  sledge  was  a  quarter  of  a  ton  of  his  Majesty's 
mail.  Toward  this  Breault  began  to  creep  slowly 
and  with  great  pain.  A  hand  inside  of  him  seemed 
crushing  the  fiber  of  his  lung,  so  that  the  blood 
oozed  out  of  his  mouth.  When  he  reached  the  sledge 
there  were  many  red  patches  in  the  snow  behind 
him.  He  opened  with  considerable  difficulty  a  small 
dunnage  sack,  and  after  fumbling  a  bit  took  there 
from  a  pencil  attached  to  a  long  red  string,  and  a 
soiled  envelope. 

For  the  first  time  a  change  came  upon  his  counten 
ance — a  ghastly  smile.  And  above  his  hissing  breath, 
that  gushed  between  his  lips  with  the  sound  of  air 
pumped  through  the  fine  mesh  of  a  colander,  there 
rose  a  still  more  ghastly  croak  of  exultation  and  of 
triumph.  Laboriously  he  wrote.  A  few  words,  and 
the  pencil  dropped  from  his  stiffening  fingers  into 
the  snow.  Around  his  neck  he  wore  a  long  red  scarf 
held  together  by  a  big  brass  pin,  and  to  this  pin 
he  fastened  securely  the  envelope. 

This  much  done, — the  mystery  of  his  death  solved 
for  those  who  might  some  day  find  him, — the  ordi 
nary  man  would  have  contented  himself  by  yielding 
up  life's  struggle  with  as  little  more  physical  diffi 
culty  as  possible.  Breault  was  not  ordinary.  He 
was,  in  his  one  way,  efficiency  incarnate.  He  made 
space  for  himself  on  the  sledge,  and  laid  himself 
out  in  that  space  with  great  care,  first  taking  pains 
to  fasten  about  his  thighs  two  babiche  thongs  that 
were  employed  at  times  to  steady  his  freight.  Then 


82  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

lie  ran  his  left  arm  through  one  of  the  loops  of  the 
stout  mail-chest.  By  taking  these  precautions  he 
was  fairly  secure  in  the  belief  that  after  he  was  dead 
and  frozen  stiff  no  amount  of  rough  trailing  by  the 
dogs  could  roll  him  from  the  sledge. 

In  this  conjecture  he  was  right.  "When  the  starved 
and  exhausted  malamutes  dragged  their  silent  bur 
den  into  the  Northwest  Mounted  Police  outpost  bar 
racks  at  Crooked  Bow  twenty-four  hours  later,  an 
ax  and  a  sapling  bar  were  required  to  pry  Francois 
Breault  from  his  bier.  Previous  to  this  process, 
however,  Sergeant  Fitzgerald,  in  charge  at  the  out 
post,  took  possession  of  the  soiled  envelope  pinned 
to  Breault 's  red  scarf.  The  information  it  bore 
was  simple,  and  yet  exceedingly  definite.  Few  men 
in  dying  as  Breault  had  died  could  have  made  the 
matter  easier  for  the  police. 

On  the  envelope  he  had  written: 

Jan  Thoreau  shot  me  and  left  me  for 
dead.  Have  just  strength  to  write  this — 
no  more.  FRANCOIS  BREAULT. 

It  was  epic — a  colossal  monument  to  this  man, 
thought  Sergeant  Fitzgerald,  as  they  pried  the 
frozen  body  loose. 

To  Corporal  Blake  fell  the  unpleasant  task  of 
going  after  Jan  Thoreau.  Unpleasant,  because 
Breault 's  starved  huskies  and  frozen  body  brought 
with  them  the  worst  storm  of  the  winter.  In  the 
face  of  this  storm  Blake  set  out,  with  the  Sergeant's 
last  admonition  in  his  ears : 


THE   FIDDLING  MAN  83 

"Don't  come  back,  Blake  until  you've  got  Mm, 
dead  or  alive.'* 

That  is  a  simple  and  efficacious  formula  in  the 
rank  and  file  of  the  Royal  Northwest  Mounted 
Police.  It  has  made  volumes  of  stirring  history,  be 
cause  it  means  a  great  deal  and  has  been  lived  up 
to.  Twice  before,  the  words  had  been  uttered  to 
Blake — in  extreme  cases.  The  first  time  they  had 
taken  him  for  six  months  into  the  Barren  Lands 
between  Hudson's  Bay  and  the  Great  Slave — and 
he  came  back  with  his  man ;  the  second  time  he  was 
gone  for  nearly  a  year  along  the  rim  of  the  Arctic 
— and  from  there  also  he  came  back  with  his  man. 
Blake  was  of  that  sort.  A  bull-dog,  a  Nemesis  when 
he  was  once  on  the  trail,  and — like  most  men  of  that 
kind — without  a  conscience.  In  the  Blue  Books  of 
the  service  he  was  credited  with  arduous  patrols 
and  unusual  exploits.  ''Put  Blake  on  the  trail" 
meant  something,  and  "He  is  one  of  our  best  men" 
was  a  firmly  established  conviction  at  departmental 
headquarters. 

Only  one  man  knew  Blake  as  Blake  actually  lived 
under  his  skin — and  that  was  Blake  himself.  He 
hunted  men  and  ran  them  down  without  mercy — not 
because  he  loved  the  law,  but  for  the  reason  that 
he  had  in  him  the  inherited  instincts  of  the  hound. 
This  comparison,  if  quite  true,  is  none  the  less  un 
fair  to  the  hound.  A  hound  is  a  good  dog  at 
heart. 

In  the  January  storm  it  may  be  that  the  vengeful 
spirit  of  Francois  Breault  set  out  in  company  with 


84  rJACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

Corporal  Blake  to  witness  the  consummation  of  his 
vengeance.  That  first  night,  as  he  sat  close  to  his 
fire  in  the  shelter  of  a  thick  spruce  timber,  Blake 
felt  the  unusual  and  disturbing  sensation  of  a  pres 
ence  somewhere  near  him.  The  storm  was  at  its 
height.  He  had  passed  through  many  storms,  but 
to-night  there  seemed  to  be  an  uncannily  concen 
trated  fury  in  its  beating  and  wailing  over  the  roofs 
of  the  forests. 

He  was  physically  comfortable.  The  spruce  trees 
were  so  dense  that  the  storm  did  not  reach  him,  and 
fortune  favored  him  with  a  good  fire  and  plenty  of 
fuel.  But  the  sensation  oppressed  him.  He  could 
not  keep  away  from  him  his  mental  vision  of  Breault 
as  he  had  helped  to  pry  him  from  the  sledge — his 
frozen  features,  the  stiffened  fingers,  the  curi 
ous  twist  of  the  icy  lips  that  had  been  almost  a 
grin. 

Blake  was  not  superstitious.  He  was  too  much 
a  man  of  iron  for  that.  His  soul  had  lost  the  plas 
ticity  of  imagination.  But  he  could  not  forget 
Breault 's  lips  as  they  had  seemed  to  grin  up  at 
him.  There  was  a  reason  for  it.  On  his  last  trip 
down,  Breault  had  said  to  him,  with  that  same  half- 
grin  on  his  face : 

"M'sieu,  some  day  you  may  go  after  my  mur 
derer,  and  when  you  do,  Francois  Breault  will  go 
with  you." 

That  was  three  months  ago.  Blake  measured  the 
time  back  as  he  sucked  at  his  pipe,  and  at  the  same 
time  he  looked  at  the  shadowy  and  half-lost  forms 


THE   FIDDLING  MAN  85 

of  his  dogs,  curled  up  for  the  night  in  the  outer  rim 
of  firelight. 

Over  the  tree-tops  a  sudden  blast  of  wind  howled. 
It  was  like  a  monster  voice.  Blake  rose  to  his  feet 
and  rolled  upon  the  fire  the  big  night  log  he  had 
dragged  in,  and  to  this  he  added,  with  the  wood 
man  's  craft  of  long  experience,  lengths  of  green  tim 
ber,  so  arranged  that  they  would  hold  fire  until 
morning.  Then  he  went  into  his  silk  service  tent 
and  buried  himself  in  his  sleeping-bag. 

For  a  long  time  he  did  not  sleep.  He  listened  io 
the  crackle  of  the  fire.  Again  and  again  he  heard 
that  monster  voice  moaning  and  shrieking  over  the 
forest.  Never  had  the  rage  of  storm  filled  him  with! 
the  uneasiness  of  to-night.  At  last  the  mystery  of 
it  was  solved  for  him.  The  wind  came  and  went 
each  time  in  a  great  moaning,  half  shrieking  sound : 
B-r-r-r-r — e-e-e-e — aw-w-w-w ! 

It  was  like  a  shock  to  him;  and  yet,  he  was  not  a 
superstitious  man.  No,  he  was  not  that.  He  would 
have  staked  his  life  on  it.  But  it  was  not  pleasant  to 
hear  a  dead  man's  name  shrieked  over  one's 
head  by  the  wind.  Under  the  cover  of  his  sleeping- 
bag  flap  Corporal  Blake  laughed.  Funny  things 
were  always  happening,  he  tried  to  tell  himself.  And 
this  was  a  mighty  good  joke.  Breault  wasn't  so  slow, 
after  all.  He  had  given  his  promise,  and  he  was 
keeping  it;  for,  if  it  wasn't  really  Breault 's  voice 
up  there  in  the  wind,  multiplied  a  thousand  times,  it 
was  a  good  imitation  of  it.  Again  Corporal  Blake 
laughed — a  laugh  as  unpleasant  as  the  cough  that 


86  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

had  come  from  Breault's  bullet-punctured  lung.  He 
fell  asleep  after  a  time;  but  even  sleep  could  not 
drive  from  him  the  clinging  obsession  of  the  thought 
that  strange  things  wex*e  to  happen  in  this  taking 
of  Jan  Thoreau, 

With  the  gray  dawn  there  was  nothing  to  mark 
the  passing  of  the  storm  except  freshly  fallen  snow, 
and  Blake  was  on  the  trail  before  it  was  light  enough 
to  see  a  hundred  yards  ahead.  There  was  a  defiance 
and  a  contempt  of  last  night  in  the  crack  of  his  long 
caribou-gut  whip  and  the  halloo  of  his  voice  as  he 
urged  on  his  dogs.  Breault's  voice  in  the  wind? 
Bah !  Only  a  fool  would  have  thought  that.  There 
fore  he  was  a  fool.  And  Jan  Thoreau — it  would  be 
like  taking  a  child.  There  would  be  no  happenings 
to  report — merely  an  arrest,  a  quick  return  jour 
ney,  an  affair  altogether  too  ordinary  to  be  inter 
esting.  Perhaps  it  was  all  on  account  of  the  hearty 
supper  of  caribou  liver  he  had  eaten.  He  was  fond 
of  liver,  and  once  or  twice  before  it  had  played  him 
tricks. 

He  began  to  wonder  if  he  would  find  Jan  Thorean 
at  home.  He  remembered  Jan  quite  vividly.  The 
Indians  called  him  Kitoochikun  because  he  played 
a  fiddle.  Blake,  the  Iron  Man,  disliked  him  because 
of  that  fiddle.  Jan  was  never  without  it,  on  the 
trail  or  off.  The  Fiddling  Man,  he  called  him  con 
temptuously — a  baby,  a  woman;  not  fit  for  the  big 
north.  Tall  and  slim,  with  blond  hair  in  spite  of  his 
French  blood  and  name,  a  quiet  and  unexcitable 
face,  and  an  air  that  Blake  called  "damned  superior- 


THE   FIDDLING   MAN  87 

I'fy."  He  wondered  how  the  Fiddling  Man  had  ever 
screwed  up  nerve  enough  to  kill  Breault.  Undoubt 
edly  there  had  been  no  fight.  A  quick  and  treacher 
ous  shot,  no  doubt.  That  was  like  a  man  who  played 
a  fiddle.  Poof!  He  had  no  more  respect  for  him 
».-  than  if  he  dressed  in  woman's  clothing. 

And  he  did  have  a  wif  e,  this  Jan  Thoreau.  They 
lived  a  good  twenty  miles  off  the  north-and-south 
trail,  on  an  island  in  the  middle  of  Black  Bear  Lake. 
He  had  never  seen  the  wife.  A  poor  sort  of  woman, 
he  made  up  his  mind,  that  would  marry  a  fiddler. 
Probably  a  half-breed;  maybe  an  Indian.  Anyway, 
he  had  no  sympathy  for  her.  Without  a  doubt,  it 
was  the  woman  who  did  the  trapping  and  cut  the 
wood.  Any  man  who  would  tote  a  fiddle  around  on 
his  back 

Corporal  Blake  traveled  fast,  and  it  was  afternoon 
of  the  second  day  when  he  came  to  the  dense  spruce 
forest  that  shut  in  Black  Bear  Lake.  Here  some 
thing  happened  to  change  his  plans  somewhat.  He 
met  an  Indian  he  knew — an  Indian  who,  for  two  or 
three  good  reasons  that  stuck  in  the  back  of  his 
head,  dared  not  lie  to  him;  and  this  tribesman,  com 
ing  straight  from  the  Thoreau  cabin,  told  him  that 
Jan  was  not  at  home,  but  had  gone  on  a  three-day 
trip  to  see  the  French  missioner  who  lived  on  one 
of  the  lower  Wholdaia  waterways. 

Blake  was  keen  on  strategem.  With  him,  man- 
hunting  was  like  a  game  of  chess ;  and  after  he  had 
questioned  the  Indian  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he 
saw  his  opportunity.  Pastamoo,  the  Cree,  was  made 


88  BACK   TO    GOD'S   COUNTRY 

a  part  of  his  Majesty's  service  on  the  spot,  with  the 
promise  of  torture  and  speedy  execution  if  he  proved 
himself  a  traitor. 

Blake  turned  over  to  him  his  dogs  and  sledge,  his 
provisions,  and  his  tent,  and  commanded  him  to 
camp  in  the  heart  of  a  cedar  swamp  a  few  miles  back, 
with  the  information  that  he  would  return  for  his 
outfit  at  some  time  in  the  indefinite  future.  He 
might  be  gone  a  day  or  a  week.  When  he  had  seen 
Pastamoo  off,  he  continued  his  journey  toward  the 
cabin,  in  the  hope  that  Jan  Thoreau's  wife  was 
either  an  Indian  or  a  fool.  He  was  too  old  a  hand 
at  his  game  to  be  taken  in  by  the  story  that  had  been 
told  to  the  Cree. 

Jan  had  not  gone  to  the  French  missioner's.  A 
murderer's  trail  would  not  be  given  away  like  that. 
Of  course  the  wife  knew.  And  Corporal  Blake  de 
sired  no  better  string  to  a  criminal  than  the  faith 
of  a  wife.  Wives  were  easy  if  handled  right,  and 
they  had  put  the  finishing  touch  to  more  than  one  of 
his  great  successes. 

At  the  edge  of  the  lake  he  fell  back  on  his  old 
trick — hunger,  exhaustion,  a  sprained  leg.  It  was 
not  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  across  the  snow- 
Covered  ice  of  the  lake  to  the  thin  spiral  of  smoke 
that  he  saw  rising  above  the  thick  balsams  on  the 
island.  Five  times  in  that  distance  he  fell  upon  his 
face;  he  crawled  like  a  man  about  to  die.  He  per 
formed  an  arduous  task,  a  devilish  task,  and  when 
at  last  he  reached  the  balsams  he  cursed  his  luck 
until  he  was  red  in  the  face.  No  one  had  seen  him. 


THE   FIDDLING   MAN  89 

That  qnarter-mile  of  labor  was  lost,  its  finesse  a 
failure.  But  he  kept  up  the  play,  and  staggered 
weakly  through  the  sheltering  balsams  to  the  cabin. 
His  artifice  had  no  shame,  even  when  played  on 
women;  and  he  fell  heavily  against  the  door,  beat 
upon  it  with  his  fist ;  and  slipped  down  into  the  snow, 
where  he  lay  with  his  head  bowed,  as  if  his  last 
strength  was  gone. 

He  heard  movement  inside,  quick  steps — and  then 
the  door  opened.  He  did  not  look  up  for  a  moment. 
That  would  have  been  crude.  When  he  did  raise 
his  head,  it  was  very  slowly,  with  a  look  of  anguish 
in  his  face.  And  then — he  stared.  His  body  all  at 
once  grew  tense,  and  the  counterfeit  pain  in  his  eyes 
died  out  like  a  flash  in  this  most  astounding  moment 
of  his  life.  Man  of  iron  though  he  was,  steeled  to 
the  core  against  the  weaknesses  of  sudden  emotions, 
it  was  impossible  for  him  to  restrain  the  gasp  of 
amazement  that  rose  to  his  lips. 

In  that  stifled  cry  Jan  Thoreau's  wife  heard  the 
supplication  of  a  dying  man.  She  did  not  catch, 
back  of  it,  the  note  of  a  startled  beast.  She  was 
herself  startled,  frightened  for  a  moment  by  the  un 
expectedness  of  it  all. 

And  Blake  stared.  This — the  fiddler's  wife!  She 
was  clutching  in  her  hand  a  brush  with  which  she 
had  been  arranging  her  hair.  The  hair,  jet  black,  was 
wonderful.  Her  eyes  were  still  more  wonderful  to 
Blake.  She  was  not  an  Indian — not  a  half-breed — and 
beautiful.  The  loveliest  face  he  had  ever  visioned, 
sleeping  or  awake,  was  looking  down  at  him 


90  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTED 

With  a  second  gasp,  he  remembered  himself,  and 
his  body  sagged,  and  the  amazed  stare  went  out  of 
his  eyes  as  he  allowed  his  head  to  fall  a  little.  In 
this  movement  his  cap  fell  off.  In  another  moment 
she  was  at  his  side,  kneeling  in  the  snow  and  bend 
ing  over  him. 

"You  are  hurt,  m'sieu!" 

Her  hair  fell  upon  him,  smothering  his  neck  and 
shoulders.  The  perfume  of  it  was  like  the  delicate 
scent  of  a  rare  flower  in  his  nostrils.  A  strange 
thrill  swept  through  him.  He  did  not  try  to  analyze 
it  in  those  few  astonishing  moments.  It  was  beyond 
his  comprehension,  even  had  he  tried.  He  was  ig 
norant  of  the  finer  fundamentals  of  life,  and  of  the 
great  truth  that  the  case-hardened  nature  of  a  man, 
like  the  body  of  an  athlete,  crumbles  fastest  under 
sudden  and  unexpected  change  and  strain. 

He  regained  his  feet  slowly  and  stupidly,  assisted 
by  Marie.  They  climbed  the  one  step  to  the  door. 
As  he  sank  back  heavily  on  the  cot,  in  the  room  they 
entered,  a  thick  tress  of  her  hair  fell  softly  upon 
his  face.  He  closed  his  eyes  for  a  space.  When  he 
opened  them,  Marie  was  bending  over  the  stove. 

And  she  was  Thoreau's  wife!  The  instant  he 
had  looked  up  into  her  face,  he  had  forgotten  the 
fiddler;  but  he  remembered  him  now  as  he  watched 
the  woman,  who  stood  with  her  back  toward  him. 
She  was  as  slim  as  a  reed.  Her  hair  fell  to  her 
hips.  He  drew  a  deep  breath.  Unconsciously  he 
clenched  his  hands.  She — the  fiddler's  wife!  The 
thought  repeated  itself  again  and  again.  Jan 


THE   FIDDLING  MAN  91 

Thoreau,    murderer,    and    this    woman — his    ivife. 

She  returned  in  a  moment  with  hot  tea,  and  he 
drank  with  subtle  hypocrisy  from  the  cnp  she  held 
to  his  lips. 

" Sprained  my  leg/'  he  said  then,  remembering 
his  old  part,  and  replying  to  the  questioning  anxiety 
in  her  eyes.  "Dogs  ran  away  and  left  me,  and  I  got 
here  just  by  chance.  A  little  more  and " 

He  smiled  grimly,  and  as  he  sank  back  he  gave  a 
sharp  cry.  He  had  practised  that  cry  in  more  than 
one  cabin,  and  along  with  it  a  convulsion  of  his 
features  to  emphasize  the  impression  he  labored  to 
make. 

"I'm  afraid — I'll  be  a  trouble  to  you,"  he  apolo 
gized.  "It's  not  broken;  but  it's  bad,  and  I  won't 
be  able  to  move — soon.  Is  Jan  at  home?" 

"No,  m'sieu;  he  is  away." 

"Away,"  repeated  Blake  disappointedly.  "Per 
haps  sometime  he  has  told  you  about  me,"  he  added 
with  sudden  hopefulness.  "I  am  John  Duval." 

"M'sieu— Duval!" 

Marie's  eyes,  looking  down  at  him,  became  all  at 
once  great  pools  of  glowing  light.  Her  lips  parted. 
»«She  leaned  toward  him,  her  slim  hands  clasped  sud 
denly  to  her  breast. 

"M'sieu  Duval — who  nursed  him  through  the 
smallpox1?"  she  cried,  her  voice  trembling. 
"M'sieu  Duval — who  saved  my  Jan's  life!" 

Blake  had  looked  up  his  facts  at  headquarters. 
He  knew  what  Duval,  the  Barren  Land  trapper,  had 
once  upon  a  time  done  for  Jan. 


92  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

"Yes;  I  am  John  Duval,"  he  said.  "And  so — 
you  see — I  am  sorry  that  Jan  is  away." 

"But  he  is  coming  back  soon — in  a  few  days,"  ex 
claimed  Marie.  "You  shall  stay,  m'sieu!  You  will 
wait  for  him?  Yes?" 

"This  leg "  began  Blake.     He   cut  himself- 

short  with  a  grimace.    "Yes,  I'll  stay.    I  guess  I'll 
have  to." 

Marie  had  changed  at  the  mention  of  Duval 's 
name.  With  the  glow  in  her  eyes  had  come  a  flush 
into  her  cheeks,  and  Blake  could  see  the  strange 
little  quiver  at  her  throat  as  she  looked  at  him.  But 
she  did  not  see  Blake  so  much  as  what  lay  beyond 
him — Duval 's  lonely  cabin  away  up  on  the  edge  of 
the  Great  Barren,  the  hours  of  darkness  and  agony 
through  which  Jan  had  passed,  and  the  magnificent 
comradeship  of  this  man  who  had  now  dragged 
himself  to  their  own  cabin,  half  dead. 

Many  times  Jan  had  told  her  the  story  of  that 
terrible  winter  when  Duval  had  nursed  him  like  a 
woman,  and  had  almost  given  up  his  life  as  a  sacri 
fice.  And  this — this — was  Duval!  She  bent  over 
him  again  as  he  lay  on  the  cot,  her  eyes  shining  like 
stars  in  the  growing  dusk.  In  that  dusk  she  was 
unconscious  of  the  fact  that  his  fingers  had  found  a 
long  tress  of  her  hair  and  were  clutching  it  pas 
sionately.  Remembering  Duval  as  Jan  had  en 
shrined  him  in  her  heart,  she  said: 

"I  have  prayed  many  times  that  the  great  God 
might  thank  you,  m'sieu." 

He  raised  a  hand.    For  an  instant  it  touched  her 


THE   FIDDLING   MAN  93 

soft,  warm  cheek  and  caressed  her  hair.  Marie  did 
not  shrink — yes,  that  would  have  been  an  insult. 
Even  Jan  would  have  said  that.  For  was  not  this 
Duval,  to  whom  she  owed  all  the  happiness  in  her  life 
— Duval,  more  than  brother  to  Jan  Thoreau,  her  hus 
band? 

"And  you — are  Marie?"  said  Blake. 

"Yes,  m'sieu,  I  am  Marie." 

A  joyous  note  trembled  in  her  voice  as  she  drew 
back  from  the  cot.  He  could  hear  her  swiftly  braid 
ing  her  hair  before  she  struck  a  match  to  light  the 
oil  lamp  hanging  from  the  ceiling.  After  that, 
through  partly  closed  eyes,  he  watched  her  as  she 
prepared  their  supper.  Occasionally,  when  she 
turned  toward  him  as  if  to  speak,  he  feigned  a  desire 
to  sleep.  It  was  a  catlike  watchfulness,  filled  with 
ihis  old  cunning.  In  his  face  there  was  no  sign  to 
betray  its  hideous  significance.  Outwardly  he  had 
regained  his  iron-like  impassiveness ;  but  in  his  body 
and  his  brain  every  nerve  and  fiber  was  consumed 
by  a  monstrous  desire — a  desire  for  this  woman, 
the  murderer's  wife.  It  was  as  strange  and  as  sud 
den  as  the  death  that  had  come  to  Francois  Breault. 
The  moment  he  had  looked  up  into  her  face  in  the 
doorway,  it  had  overwhelmed  him.  And  now  even 
.the  sound  of  her  footsteps  on  the  floor  filled  him  with 
an  exquisite  exultation.  It  was  more  than  exulta 
tion.  It  was  a  feeling  of  possession. 

In  the  hollow  of  his  hand  he — Blake,  the  man- 
hunter — held  the  fate  of  this  woman.  Sh3  was  the 
Fiddler  *s  wife — and  the  Fiddler  was  a  murderer. 


94  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

Marie  heard  the  sndden  deep  breath  that  forced 
itself  from  his  lips,  a  gasp  that  would  have  been  a 
cry  of  triumph  if  he  had  given  it  voice. 

"You  are  in  pain,  m'sieu,"  she  exclaimed,  turn 
ing  toward  him  quickly. 

"A  little,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her.  "Will  yon 
help  me  to  sit  up,  Marie  ?" 

He  saw  ahead  of  him  another  and  more  thrilling 
game  than  the  man-hunt  now.  And  Marie,  unsus 
picious,  put  her  arms  about  the  shoulders  of  the 
Pharisee  and  helped  him  to  rise.  They  ate  their 
supper  with  a  narrow  table  between  them.  If  there 
had  been  a  doubt  in  Blake's  mind  before  that,  the 
'half  hour  in  which  she  sat  facing  him  dispelled  it 
utterly.  At  first  the  amazing  beauty  of  Thoreau's 
wife  had  impinged  itself  upon  his  senses  with  some 
thing  of  a  shock.  But  he  was  cool  now.  He  was 
again  master  of  his  old  cunning.  Pitilessly  and 
without  conscience,  he  was  marshaling  the  crafty 
forces  of  his  brute  nature  for  this  new  and  more 
thrilling  fight — the  fight  for  a  woman. 

That  in  representing  the  Law  he  was  pledged  to 
virtue  as  well  as  order  had  never  entered  into  his 
code  of  life.  To  him  the  Law  was  force — power. 
It  had  exalted  him.  It  had  forged  an  iron  mask 
over  the  face  of  his  savagery.  And  it  was  the  savage 
that  was  dominant  in  him  now.  He  saw  in  Marie 's 
dark  eyes  a  great  love — love  for  a  murderer. 

It  was  not  his  thought  that  he  might  alienate 
that.  For  that  look,  turned  upon  himself,  he  would 
have  sacrificed  his  whole  world  as  it  had  previously 


THE   FIDDLING   MAN  95 

existed.  He  was  scheming  beyond  that  impossibil 
ity,  measuring  her  even  as  he  called  himself  Duval, 
counting — not  his  chances  of  success,  but  the  length 
of  time  it  would  take  him  to  succeed. 

He  had  never  failed.  A  man  had  never  beaten 
him.  A  woman  had  never  tricked  him.  And  he 
granted  no  possibility  of  failure  now.  But — 
hoiv?  That  was  the  question  that  writhed  and 
twisted  itself  in  his  brain  even  as  he  smiled  at  her 
over  the  table  and  told  her  of  the  black  days  of 
Jan's  sickness  up  on  the  edge  of  the  Barren. 

And  then  it  came  to  him — all  at  once.  Marie  did 
not  see.  She  did  not  feel.  She  had  no  suspicion 
of  this  loyal  friend  of  her  husband's. 

Blake's  heart  pounded  triumphant.  He  hobbled 
back  to  the  cot,  leaning  on  Marie  slim  shoulder ;  and 
as  he  hobbled  he  told  her  how  he  had  helped  Jan  into 
his  cabin  in  just  this  same  way,  and  how  at  the  end 
Jan  had  collapsed — just  as  he  collapsed  when  he 
came  to  the  cot.  He  pulled  Marie  down  with  him — 
accidentally.  His  lips  touched  her  head.  He 
laughed. 

For  a  few  moments  he  was  like  a  drunken  man  in 
his  new  joy.  Willingly  he  would  have  gambled  his 
life  on  his  chance  of  winning.  But  confidence  dis 
placed  none  of  his  cunning.  He  rubbed  his  hands 
and  said: 

* '  Gawd,  but  won 't  it  be  a  surprise  for  Jan  ?  I  told 
him  that  some  day  I'd  come.  I  told  him!" 

It  would  be  a  tremendous  joke — this  surprise  he 
iiad  in  store  for  Jan.  He  chuckled  over  it  again  and 


96  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTKY 

again  as  Marie  went  about  her  work;  and  Marie's 
face  flushed  and  her  eyes  were  bright  and  she 
laughed  softly  at  this  great  love  which  Duval  be 
trayed  for  her  husband.  No;  even  the  loss  of  his 
dogs  and  his  outfit  couldn  't  spoil  his  pleasure !  Why 
should  it?  He  could  get  other  dogs  and  another 
outfit — but  it  had  been  three  years  since  he  had  seen 
Jan  Thoreau!  "When  Marie  had  finished  her 
work  he  put  his  hand  suddenly  to  his  eyes  and 
said : 

"Peste!  but  last  night's  storm  must  have  hurt 
my  eyes.  The  light  blinds  them,  ma  cheri.  Will 
you  put  it  out,  and  sit  down  near  me,  so  that  I  can 
see  you  as  you  talk,  and  tell  me  all  that  has  hap 
pened  to  Jan  Thoreau  since  that  winter  three  years 
ago?" 

She  put  out  the  light,  and  threw  open  the  door 
of  the  box-stove.  In  the  dim  firelight  she  sat  on  a 
stool  beside  Blake 's  cot.  Her  faith  in  him  was  like 
that  of  a  child.  She  was  twenty-two.  Blake  was 
fifteen  years  older.  She  felt  the  immense  superior 
ity  of  his  age. 

This  man,  you  must  understand,  had  been  more 
than  a  brother  to  Jan.  He  had  been  a  father.  He 
had  risked  his  life.  He  had  saved  him  from  death. 
And  Marie,  as  she  sat  at  his  side,  did  not  think  of 
him  as  a  young  man — thirty-seven.  She  talked  to 
him  as  she  might  have  talked  to  an  elder  brother 
of  Jan's,  and  with  something  like  the  same  rever 
ence  in  her  voice. 

It  was  unfortunate — for  her — that  Jan  had  loved 


THE   FIDDLING  MAN  97 

Duval,  and  that  he  had  never  tired  of  telling  her 
about  him.  And  now,  when  Blake's  caution  warned 
him  to  lie  no  more  about  the  days  of  plague  in 
Duval 's  cabin,  she  told  him — as  he  had  asked  her — 
about  herself  and  Jan;  how  they  had  lived  during 
the  last  three  years,  the  important  things  that  had 
happened  to  them,  and  what  they  were  looking  for 
ward  to. 

He  caught  the  low  note  of  happiness  that  ran 
through  her  voice;  and  with  a  laugh,  a  laugh  that 
sounded  real  and  wholesome,  he  put  out  his  hand 
in  the  darkness — for  the  fire  had  burned  itself  low 
— and  stroked  her  hair.  She  did  not  shrink  from 
the  caress.  He  was  happy  because  they  were  happy. 
That  was  her  thought!  And  Blake  did  not  go  too 
far. 

She  went  on,  telling  Jan's  life  away,  betraying  him 
In  her  happiness,  crucifying  him  in  her  faith. 
Blake  knew  that  she  was  telling  the  truth.  She  did 
not  know  that  Jan  had  killed  Francois  Breault,  and 
she  believed  that  he  would  surely  return — in  three 
days.  And  the  way  he  had  left  her  that  morning! 
Yes,  she  confided  even  that  to  this  big  brother  of 
Jan,  her  cheeks  flushing  hotly  in  the  darkness — how 
he  had  hated  to  go,  and  held  her  a  long  time  in  his 
arms  before  he  tore  himself  away. 

Had  he  taken  his  fiddle  along  with  him?  Yes — 
always  that.  Next  to  herself  he  loved  his  violin. 
Oo-oo — no,  no — she  was  not  jealous  of  the  violin! 
Blake  laughed — such  a  big,  healthy,  happy  laugh, 
with  an  odd  tremble  in  it.  He  stroked  her  hair 


98  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

again,  and  his  fingers  lay  for  an  instant  against  her 
warm  cheek. 

And  then,  quite  casually,  he  played  his  second 
big  card. 

"A  man  was  found  dead  on  the  trail  yesterday," 
he  said.  "Some  one  killed  him.  He  had  a  bullet 
through  his  lung.  He  was  the  mail-runner,  Francois 
Breault." 

It  was  then,  when  he  said  that  Breault  had  been 
murdered,  that  Blake's  hand  touched  Marie's  cheek 
and  fell  to  her  shoulder.  It  was  too  dark  in  the 
cabin  to  see.  But  under  his  hand  he  felt  her  grow 
suddenly  rigid,  and  for  a  moment  or  two  she  seemed 
to  stop  breathing.  In  the  gloom  Blake's  lips  were 
smiling.  He  had  struck,  and  he  needed  no  light  to 
see  the  effect. 

"Francois — Breault!'*  he  heard  her  breathe  at 
last,  as  if  she  was  fighting  to  keep  something  from 
choking  her.  "Francois  Breault — dead — killed  by 
someone " 

She  rose  slowly.  His  eyes  followed  her,  a  shadow 
in  the  gloom  as  she  moved  toward  the  stove.  He 
heard  her  strike  a  match,  and  when  she  turned  to 
ward  him  again  in  the  light  of  the  oil-lamp,  her  face 
was  pale  and  her  eyes  were  big  and  staring.  He 
swung  himself  to  the  edge  of  the  cot,  his  pulse  beat 
ing  with  the  savage  thrill  of  the  inquisitor.  Yet 
he  knew  that  it  was  not  quite  time  for  him  to  dis 
close  himself — not  quite.  He  did  not  dread  the 
moment  when  he  would  rise  and  tell  her  that  he 
was  not  injured,  and  that  he  was  not  M  'sieu  Duval, 


THE  FIDDLING  MAN  99 

but  Corporal  Blake  of  the  Royal  Mounted  Police. 
He  was  eager  for  that  moment.  But  he  waited — 
discreetly.  When  the  trap  was  sprung  there  would 
be  no  escape. 

"You  are  sure — it  was  Franeois  Breault?"  she 
said  at  last. 

He  nodded. 

"Yes,  the  mail-runner.    You  knew  him?" 

She  had  moved  to  the  table,  and  her  hand  was 
gripping  the  edge  of  it.  For  a  space  she  did  not 
answer  him,  but  seemed  to  be  looking  somewhere 
through  the  cabin  walls — a  long  way  off.  Ferret- 
like,  he  was  watching  her,  and  saw  his  opportunity. 
How  splendidly  fate  was  playing  his  way! 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  hobbled  painfully  to  Her, 
a  splendid  hypocrite,  a  magnificent  dissembler.  He 
seized  her  hand  and  held  it  in  both  his  own.  It  was 
small  and  sofe,  but  strangely  cold. 

"Ma  cheri — my  dear  child — what  makes  you 
look  like  that?  What  has  the  death  of  Francois 
Breault  to  do  with  you — you  and  Jan?" 

It  was  the  voice  of  a  friend,  a  brother,  low,  sym 
pathetic,  filled  just  enough  with  anxiety.  Only  last 
winter,  in  just  that  way,  it  had  won  the  confidence 
and  roused  the  hope  of  Pierrot 's  wife,  over  on  the 
Athabasca.  In  the  summer  that  followed  they 
hanged  Pierrot.  Gently  Blake  spoke  the  words 
again.  Marie's  lips  trembled.  Her  great  eyes 
were  looking  at  him — straight  into  his  soul,  it 
seemed. 

"You  may  tell  me,  ma  cheri/'  he  encouraged, 


100          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTEY 

barely  above  a  whisper.  "I  am  Duval.  And  Jan — • 
I  love  Jan. ' ' 

He  drew  her  back  toward  the  cot,  dragging  his 
limb  painfully,  and  seated  her  again  upon  the  stool. 
He  sat  beside  her,  still  holding  her  hand,  patting 
it,  encouraging  her.  The  color  was  coming  back  into 
Marie's  cheeks.  Her  lips  were  growing  full  and 
red  again,  and  suddenly  she  gave  a  trembling  little 
laugh  as  she  looked  up  into  Blake 's  face.  His  pres 
ence  began  to  dispel  the  terror  that  had  possessed 
her  all  at  once. 

"Tell  me,  Marie. " 

He  saw  the  shudder  that  passed  through  her  slim 
shoulders. 

"They  had  a  fight — here — in  this  cabin — three 
days  ago,"  she  confessed.  "It  must  have  been — 
the  day — he  was  killed." 

Blake  knew  the  wild  thought  that  was  in  her  heart 
as  she  watched  him.  The  muscles  of  his  jaws  tight 
ened.  His  shoulders  grew  tense.  He  looked  over 
her  head  as  if  he,  too,  saw  something  beyond  the 
cabin  walls.  It  was  Marie's  hand  that  gripped  his 
now,  and  her  voice,  panting  almost,  was  filled  with 
an  agonized  protest. 

"No,  no,  no — it  was  not  Jan,"  she  moaned.  "It 
was  not  Jan  who  killed  him!" 

"Hush!"  said  Blake. 

He  looked  about  him  as  if  there  was  a  chance  that 
someone  might  hear  the  fatal  words  she  had  spoken. 
It  was  a  splendid  bit  of  acting,  almost  unconscious, 
and  tremendously  effective.  The  expression  in  his 


THE  FIDDLING  MAN  101 

face  stabbed  to  her  heart  like  a  cold  knife.  Con 
vulsively  her  fingers  clutched  more  tightly  at  his 
hands.  He  might  as  well  have  spoken  the  words: 
"It  was  Jan,  then,  who  killed  Francois  Breault!" 

Instead  of  that  he  said : 

"You  must  tell  me  everything,  Marie.  How  did 
it  happen?  Why  did  they  fight?  And  why  has  Jan 
gone  away  so  soon  after  the  killing?  For  Jan's 
sake,  you  must  tell  me — everything." 

He  waited.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  hear 
the  fighting  struggle  in  Marie's  breast.  Then  she 
began,  brokenly,  a  little  at  a  time,  now  and  then 
barely  whispering  the  story.  It  was  a  woman's 
story,  and  she  told  it  like  a  woman,  from  the  begin 
ning.  Perhaps  at  one  time  the  rivalry  between  Jan 
Thoreau  and  Francois  Breault,  and  their  struggle 
for  her  love,  had  made  her  heart  beat  faster  and 
her  cheeks  flush  warm  with  a  woman's  pride  of  con 
quest,  even  though  she  had  loved  one  and  had  hated 
lie  other.  None  of  that  pride  was  in  her  voice  now, 
except  when  she  spoke  of  Jan. 

"Yes — like  that — children  together — we  grew 
up,"  she  confided.  "It  was  down  there  at  Wollas- 
ton  Post,  in  the  heart  of  the  big  forests,  and  when 
I  was  a  baby  it  was  Jan  who  carried  me  about  on  his 
shoulders.  Oui,  even  then  he  played  the  violin.  I 
loved  it.  I  loved  Jan — always.  Later,  when  I  was 
seventeen,  Francois  Breault  came." 
She  was  trembling. 

"Jan  has  told  me  a  little  about  those  days,"  lied 
Blake.    "Tell  me  the  rest,  Marie." 


1B2          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTEY 

**I — I  knew  I  was  going  to  be  Jan's  wife,"  she 
went  on,  the  hands  she  had  withdrawn  from  his 
•twisting  nervously  in  her  lap.  "We  both  knew. 
[And  yet — he  had  not  spoken — he  had  not  been  def 
inite.  Oo-oo,  do  you  understand,  M'sieu  Duval?  It 
was  my  fault  at  the  beginning!  Francois  Breault 
loved  me.  And  so — I  played  with  him — only  a  little, 
m'sieu! — to  frighten  Jan  into  the  thought  that  he 
might  lose  me.  I  did  not  know  what  I  was  doing. 
No — no;  I  didn't  understand. 

"Jan  and  I  were  married,  and  on  the  day  Jan 
saw  the  missioner — a  week  before  we  were  made  man 
and  wife — Francois  Beault  came  in  from  the  trail 
to  see  me,  and  I  confessed  to  him,  and  asked  hrs 
forgiveness.  We  were  alone.  And  he — Francois 
Breault — was  like  a  madman." 

She  was  panting.  Her  hands  were  clenched.  "If 
Jan  hadn't  heard  my  cries,  and  come  just  in 
time "  she  breathed. 

Her  blazing  eyes  looked  up  into  Blake 's  face.  He 
understood,  and  nodded. 

"And  it  was  like  that — again — three  days  ago," 
ishe  continued.  "I  hadn't  seen  Breault  in  two  years 
— two  years  ago  down  at  Wollaston  Post.  And  he 
was  mad.  Yes,  he  must  have  been  mad  when  he 
came  three  days  ago.  I  don't  know  that  he  came 
so  much  for  me  as  it  was  to  kill  Jan.  He  said  it 
was  Jan.  Ugh,  and  it  was  here — in  the  cabin — that 
they  fought!" 

"And  Jan — punished  him,"  said  Blake  in  a  low 
voice. 


THE   FIDDLING   MAN  103 

Again  the  convulsive  shudder  swept  through 
Marie's  shoulders. 

"It  was  strange — what  happened,  m'sieu.  I  was 
going  to  shoot.  Yes,  I  would  have  shot  him  when  the 
chance  came.  But  all  at  once  Francois  Breault 
sprang  back  to  the  door,  and  he  cried:  'Jan  Tho- 
reau,  I  am  mad — mad!  Great  God,  what  have  I 
etone?'  Yes,  he  said  that,  m'sieu,  those  very  words 
— and  then  he  was  gone." 

"And  that  same  day — a  little  later — Jan  went 
away  from  the  cabin,  and  was  gone  a  long  time," 
whispered  Blake.  "Was  it  not  so,  Marie?" 

"Yes;  he  went  to  his  trap-line,  m'sieu." 

For  the  first  time  Blake  made  a  movement.  He 
took  her  face  boldly  between  his  two  hands,  and 
turned  it  so  that  her  staring  eyes  were  looking 
straight  into  his  own.  Every  fiber  in  his  body  was 
trembling  with  the  thrill  of  his  monstrous  triumph. 

"My  dear  little  girl,  I  must  tell  you  the  truth," 
he  said.  "Your  husband,  Jan,  did  not  go  to  his 
trap-line  three  days  ago.  He  followed  Francois 
Breault,  and  killed  him.  And  I  am  not  John  Duval. 
I  am  Corporal  Blake  of  the  Mounted  Police,  and  I 
have  come  to  get  Jan,  that  he  may  be  hanged  by 
the  neck  until  he  is  dead  for  his  crime.  I  came 
for  that.  But  I  have  changed  my  mind.  I  have  seen 
you,  and  for  you  I  would  give  even  a  murderer 
his  life.  Do  you  understand?  For  you — you — 

yOU " 

And  then  came  the  grand  finale,  just  as  he  had 
planned  it.  His  words  had  stupefied  her.  She  made 


104          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

no  movement,  no  sound — only  her  great  eyes  seemed 
alive.  And  suddenly  lie  swept  her  into  his  arms  with 
the  wild  passion  of  a  beast.  How  long  she  lay 
against  his  breast,  his  arms  crushing  her,  his  hot 
lips  on  her  face,  she  did  not  know. 

The  world  had  grown  suddenly  dark.  But  in  that 
darkness  she  heard  his  voice ;  and  what  it  was  say 
ing  roused  her  at  last  from  the  deadliness  of  her 
stupor.  She  strained  against  him,  and  with  a  wild 
cry  broke  from  his  arms,  and  staggered  across  the 
cabin  floor  to  the  door  of  her  bedroom.  Blake  did 
not  pursue  her.  He  let  the  darkness  of  that  room 
shut  her  in.  He  had  told  her — and  she  under 
stood. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he  rose  to  his  feet. 
Quite  calmly,  in  spite  of  the  wild  rush  of  blood 
through  his  body,  he  went  to  the  cabin  door,  opened 
it,  and  looked  out  into  the  night.  It  was  full  of 
stars,  and  quiet. 

It  was  quiet  in  that  inner  room,  too — so  quiet  that 
one  might  fancy  he  could  hear  the  beating  of  a  heart. 
Marie  had  flung  herself  in  the  farthest  corner, 
beyond  the  bed.  And  there  her  hand  had  touched 
something.  It  was  cold — the  chill  of  steel.  She 
could  almost  have  screamed,  in  the  mighty  reaction 
that  swept  through  her  like  an  electric  shock.  But 
her  lips  were  dumb  and  her  hand  clutched  tighter 
at  the  cold  thing. 

She  drew  it  toward  her  inch  by  inch,  and  leveled 
it  across  the  bed.  It  was  Jan's  goose-gun,  loaded 
with  buck-shot.  There  was  a  single  metallie  ela«k 


THE   FIDDLING   MAN  105 

as  she  drew  the  hammer  back.  In  the  doorway, 
looking  at  the  stars,  Blake  did  not  hear. 

Marie  waited.  She  was  not  reasoning  things  now, 
except  that  in  the  outer  room  there  was  a  serpent 
tkat  she  mnst  kill.  She  would  kill  him  as  he  came 
between  her  and  the  light;  then  she  would  follow 
over  Jan's  trail,  overtake  him  somewhere,  and  they 
would  flee  together.  Of  that  much  she  thought 
ahead.  But  chiefly  her  mind,  her  eyes,  her  brain, 
her  whole  being,  were  concentrated  on  the  twelve- 
inch  opening  between  the  bedroom  door  and  the 
outer  room.  The  serpent  would  soon  appear  theres 
And  then 

She  heard  the  cabin  door  close,  and  Blake's  foot 
steps  approaching.  Her  body  did  not  tremble  now. 
Her  forefinger  was  steady  on  the  trigger.  She  held 
her  breath — and  waited.  Blake  came  to  the  dead 
line  and  stopped.  She  could  see  one  arm  and  a  part 
of  his  shoulder.  But  that  was  not  enough.  Another 
half  step — six  inches — four  even,  and  she  would  fire* 
Her  heart  pounded  like  a  tiny  hammer  in  her  breast. 

And  then  the  very  life  in  her  body  seemed  to  stand 
still.  The  cabin  door  had  opened  suddenly,  and 
someone  had  entered.  In  that  moment  she  would 
have  fired,  for  she  knew  that  it  must  be  Jan  who  had 
returned.  But  Blake  had  moved.  And  now,  with 
her  finger  on  the  trigger,  she  heard  his  cry  of 
amazement : 

"Sergeant  Fitzgerald!" 

"Yes.  Put  up  your  gun,  Corporal.  Have  you  got 
Jan  Thoreau?" 


106          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTEY 

"He — is  gone." 

"That  is  lucky  for  us."  It  was  the  stranger's 
voice,  filled  with  a  great  relief.  "I  have  traveled 
fast  to  overtake  you.  Matao,  the  half-breed,  was 
stabbed  in  a  quarrel  soon  after  you  left ;  and  before 
he  died  he  confessed  to  killing  Breault.  The  evi 
dence  is  conclusive.  Ugh,  but  this  fire  is  good !  Any 
body  at  home  ? ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Blake  slowly.  "Mrs.  Thoreau — is — 
at  home." 


L'ANGE 

SHE  stood  in  the  doorway  of  a  log  cabin  that  was 
overgrown  with  woodvine  and  mellow  with  the  dull 
red  glow  of  the  climbing  bakneesh,  with  the  warmth 
of  the  late  summer  sun  falling  upon  her  bare  head. 
Cummins'  shout  had  brought  her  to  the  door  when 
we  were  still  half  a  rifle  shot  down  the  river;  a 
second  shout,  close  to  shore,  brought  her  running 
down  toward  me.  In  that  first  view  that  I  had  of 
her,  I  called  her  beautiful.  It  was  chiefly,  I  believe, 
because  of  her  splendid  hair.  John  Cummins' 
shout  of  homecoming  had  caught  her  with  it  undone, 
and  she  greeted  us  with  the  dark  and  lustrous  masses 
of  it  sweeping  about  her  shoulders  and  down  to  her 
hips.  That  is,  she  greeted  Cummins,  for  he  had 
been  gone  for  nearly  a  month.  I  busied  myself 
with  the  canoe  for  that  first  half  minute  or  so. 

Then  it  was  that  I  received  my  introduction  and 
for  the  first  time  touched  the  hand  of  Melisse  Cum 
mins,  the  Florence  Nightingale  of  several  thousand 
square  miles  of  northern  wilderness.  I  saw,  then, 
that  what  I  had  at  first  taken  for  our  own  hothouse 
variety  of  beauty  was  a  different  thing  entirely,  a 
type  that  would  have  disappointed  many  because  of 

107 


108          BACK  TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

its  strength  and  firmness.  Her  hair  was  a  glory, 
brown  and  soft.  No  woman  could  have  criticized 
its  loveliness.  But  the  flush  that  I  had  seen  in  her 
face,  flower-like  at  a  short  distance,  was  a  tan  that 
was  almost  a  man's  tan.  Her  eyes  were  of  a  deep 
'blue  and  as  clear  as  the  sky ;  but  in  them,  too,  there 
was  a  strength  that  was  not  altogether  feminine. 
There  was  strength  in  her  face,  strength  in  the  poise 
of  her  firm  neck,  strength  in  every  movement  of  her 
limbs  and  body.  When  she  spoke,  it  was  in  a  voice 
which,  like  her  hair,  was  adorable.  I  had  never 
heard  a  sweeter  voice,  and  her  firm  mouth  was  all 
at  once  not  only  gentle  and  womanly,  but  almost  girl 
ishly  pretty. 

I  could  understand,  now,  why  Melisse  Cummins 
was  the  heroine  of  a  hundred  true  tales  of  the 
wilderness,  and  I  could  understand  as  well  why 
there  was  scarcely  a  cabin  or  an  Indian  hut  in  that 
ten  thousand  square  miles  of  wilderness  in  which 
she  had  not,  at  one  time  or  another,  been  spoken  of 
as  "L'ange  Meleese."  And  yet,  unlike  that  other 
" angel"  of  flesh  and  blood,  Florence  Nightingale, 
the  story  of  Melisse  Cummins  and  her  work  will 
live  and  die  with  her  in  that  little  cabin  two  hundred 
miles  straight  north  of  civilization.  No,  that  is 
wrong.  For  the  wilderness  will  remember.  It  will 
remember,  as  it  has  remembered  Father  Duchene 
and  the  Missioner  of  Lac  Bain  and  the  heroic  days 
of  the  early  voyageurs.  A  hundred  "Meleeses"  will 
bear  her  memory  in  name — for  all  who  speak  her 
name  call  her  "Meleese,"  and  not  Melisse. 


\ 

L'ANGE  109 

The  wilderness  itself  may  never  forget,  as  it  has 
never  forgotten  beautiful  Jeanne  D'Arcambal,  who 
lived  and  died  on  the  shore  of  the  great  bay  more 
than  one  hundred  and  sixty  years  ago.  It  will  never 
forget  the  great  heart  this  woman  has  given  to  her 
" people"  from  the  days  of  girlhood;  it  will  not  for 
get  the  thousand  perils  she  faced  to  seek  out 
the  sick,  the  plague-stricken  and  the  starving ;  in  old 
age  there  will  still  be  those  who  will  remember  the 
first  prayers  to  the  real  God  that  she  taught  them  in 
childhood ;  and  children  still  to  come,  in  cabin,  tepee 
and  hut,  will  live  to  bless  the  memory  of  L'ange  Me- 
leese,  who  made  possible  for  them  a  new  birthright 
and  who  in  the  wild  places  lived  to  the  full  measure 
and  glory  of  the  Golden  Rule. 

To  find  Meleese  Cummins  and  her  home  in  the 
wilderness,  one  must  start  at  Le  Pas  as  the  last  out 
post  of  civilization  and  strike  northward  through! 
the  long  Pelican  Lake  waterways  to  Reindeer  Lake. 
Nearly  forty  miles  up  the  east  shore  of  the  lake,  the 
adventurer  will  come  to  the  mouth  of  the  Gray  Loon 
— narrow  and  silent  stream  that  winds  under  over 
hanging  forests — and  after  that  a  two-hours'  jour 
ney  in  a  canoe  will  bring  one  to  the  Cummins  *  cabin. 
It  is  set  in  a  clearing,  with  the  thick  spruce  and 
balsam  and  cedar  hemming  it  in,  and  a  tall  ridge 
capped  with  golden  birch  rising  behind  it.  In  that 
clearing  John  Cummins  raises  a  little  fruit  and  a 
few  vegetables  during  the  summer  months;  but  it 
is  chiefly  given  up  to  three  or  four  huge  plots  of 
scarlet  moose-flowers,  a  garden  of  Labrador  tea, 


110          BACK  TO   GOD'S   COUNTEY 

and  wild  flowering  plants  and  vines  of  half  a  dozen 
varieties.  And  where  the  radiant  moose-flowers 
grow  thickest,  screened  from  the  view  of  the  cabin 
by  a  few  cedars  and  balsams,  are  the  rough  wooden 
slabs  that  mark  seven  graves.  Six  of  them  are  the 
graves  of  children — little  ones  who  died  deep  in  the 
wilderness  and  whose  tiny  bodies  Meleese  Cummins 
eould  not  leave  to  the  savage  and  pitiless  loneliness 
of  the  forests,  bnt  whom  she  has  brought  together 
that  they  might  have  company  in  what  she  calls  her 
"Little  Garden  of  God" 

Those  little  graves  tell  the  story  of  Meleese — the 
woman  who,  all  heart  and  soul,  has  buried  her  own 
one  little  babe  in  that  garden  of  flowers.  One  of  the 
slabs  marks  the  grave  of  an  Indian  baby,  whose  little 
dead  body  Meleese  Cummins  carried  to  her  cabin  in 
her  own  strong  arms  from  twenty  miles  back  in  the 
forest,  when  the  temperature  was  fifty  degrees  below 
zero.  Another  of  them,  a  baby  boy,  a  French  half- 
breed  and  his  wife  brought  down  from  fifty  miles  up 
the  Eeindeer  and  begged  "L'ange  Meleese"  to  let  it 
rest  with  the  others,  where  "it  might  not  be  lonely 
and  would  not  be  frightened  by  the  howl  of  the 
wolves. "  It  was  a  wild  and  half  Indian  mother  who 
said  that! 

It  was  almost  twenty  years  ago  that  the  romance 
began  in  the  lives  of  John  and  Meleese  Cummins. 
Meleese  was  then  ten  years  old,  and  she  still  remem 
bers  as  vividly  as  though  they  were  but  memories 
of  yesterday  the  fears  and  wild  tales  of  that  one 
terrible  winter  when  the  "Red  Terror" — the  small- 


L'ANGE  111 

pox — swept  in  a  pitiless  plague  of  death  throughout 
the  northern  wilderness.  It  was  then  that  there 
came  down  from  the  north,  one  bitter  cold  day,  a 
ragged  and  half-starved  boy,  whose  mother  and 
father  had  died  of  the  plague  in  a  little  cabin  fifty 
miles  away,  and  who  from  the  day  he  staggered  into 
the  home  of  Henry  Janesse,  became  Meleese's  play 
mate  and  chum.  This  boy  was  John  Cummins. 
When  Janesse  moved  to  Fort  Churchill,  where  Me- 
leese  might  learn  more  in  the  way  of  reading  and 
writing  and  books  than  her  parents  could  teach  her, 
John  Cummins  went  with  her.  He  went  with  them 
to  Nelson  House,  and  from  there  to  Split  Lake, 
where  Janesse  died.  From  that  time,  at  the  age  of 
eighteen,  he  became  the  head  and  support  of  the 
home.  When  he  was  twenty  and  Meleese  eighteen, 
the  two  were  married  by  a  missioner  from  Nelson 
House.  The  following  autumn  the  young  wife's 
mother  died,  and  that  winter  Meleese  began  her 
remarkable  work  among  her  "people." 

In  their  little  cabin  on  the  Gray  Loon,  one  will 
hear  John  Cummins  say  but  little  about  himself ;  but 
there  is  a  glow  in  his  eyes  and  a  flush  in  his  cheeks 
as  he  tells  of  that  first  day  he  came  home  from  a 
three-days '  journey  over  a  long  trap  line  to  find  his 
home  cold  and  fireless,  and  a  note  written  by  Meleese 
telling  him  that  she  had  gone  with  a  twelve-year-old 
boy  who  had  brought  her  word  through  twenty  miles 
of  forest  that  his  mother  was  dying.  That  first 
"case"  was  more  terrible  for  John  Cummins  than 
for  his  wife,  for  it  tamed  out  to  be  smallpox,  and 


112          BACK   TO    GOD'S    COUNTRY 

for  six  weeks  Meleese  would  allow  him  to  come  no 
nearer  than  the  edge  of  the  clearing  in  which  the 
pest-ridden  cabin  stood.  First  the  mother,  and  then 
the  boy,  she  nursed  back  to  life,  locking  the  door 
against  the  two  husbands,  who  built  themselves  a 
shack  in  the  edge  of  the  forest.  Half  a  dozen  times 
Meleese  Cummins  has  gone  through  ordeals  like  that 
unscathed.  Once  it  was  to  nurse  a  young  Indian 
mother  through  the  dread  disease,  and  again  she 
went  into  a  French  trapper's  cabin  where  husband, 
wife  and  daughter  were  all  sick  with  the  malady.  At 
these  times,  when  the  "call"  came  to  Meleese  from 
a  far  cabin  or  tepee,  John  Cummins  would  give  up 
the  duties  of  his  trap  line  to  accompany  her,  and 
would  pitch  his  tent  or  make  him  a  shack  close  by, 
where  he  could  watch  over  her,  hunt  food  for  the 
afflicted  people  and  keep  up  the  stack  of  needed  fire 
wood  and  water. 

But  there  were  times  when  the  "calls"  came  dur 
ing  the  husband's  absence,  and,  if  they  were  urgent, 
Meleese  went  alone,  trusting  to  her  own  splendid 
strength  and  courage.  A  half-breed  woman  came  to 
her  one  day,  in  the  dead  of  winter,  from  twenty  miles 
across  the  lake.  Her  husband  had  frozen  one  of  his 
feet,  and  the  "frost  malady"  would  kill  him,  she 
said,  unless  he  had  help.  Scarcely  knowing  what 
she  could  do  in  such  a  case,  Meleese  left  a  note  for 
her  husband,  and  on  snowshoes  the  two  heroic 
women  set  off  across  the  wind-swept  and  unshel 
tered  lake,  with  the  thermometer  fifty  degrees  below 
zero.  It  was  a  terrible  venture,  but  the  two  won  out. 


L'ANGE  US 

When  Meleese  saw  the  frozen  man,  she  knew  that 
there  was  but  one  thing  to  do,  and  with  all  the  cour 
age  of  her  splendid  heart  she  amputated  his  foot. 
The  torture  of  that  terrible  hour  no  one  will  ever 
know.  But  when  John  Cummins  returned  to  his 
home  and,  wild  with  fear,  followed  across  the  lake, 
he  scarcely  recognized  the  Meleese  who  flung  herself 
sobbing  into  his  arms  when  he  found  her.  For  two 
weeks  after  that  Meleese  herself  was  sick. 

Thus,  through  the  course  of  years,  it  came  about 
that  it  was,  indeed,  a  stranger  in  the  land  who  had 
not  heard  her  name.  During  the  summer  months 
Meleese 's  work,  in  place  of  duty,  was  a  pleasure. 
"With  her  husband  she  made  canoe  journeys  for  fifty 
miles  about  her  home,  bearing  with  her  the  teach 
ings  of  cleanliness,  of  health  and  of  God.  She  was 
the  first  to  hold  to  her  own  loving  breast  many  little 
children  who  came  into  their  wild  and  desolate  in 
heritance  of  life.  She  was  the  first  to  teach  a  hun 
dred  childish  lips  to  say  "Now  I  lay  me  down  to 
sleep,"  and  more  than  one  woman  she  made  to  see 
the  clear  and  starry  way  to  brighter  life. 

Far  up  on  Reindeer  Lake,  close  to  the  shore,  there 
is  a  towering  "lob-stick  tree ' '•  —which  is  a  tall  spruce 
or  cedar  lopped  of  all  its  branches  to  the  very  crest, 
which  is  trimmed  in  the  form  of  a  plume.  A  tree 
thus  shriven  and  trimmed  is  the  Cree  cenotaph  to 
one  held  in  almost  spiritual  reverence,  and  the  tree 
far  up  on  Eeindeer  Lake  is  one  of  the  half  dozen  or 
more  "  lob-sticks  "  dedicated  to  Meleese.  Six  weeks 
Meleese  and  John  Cummins  spent  in  an  Indian  camp 


114          BACK  TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

at  this  point,  and  when  at  last  the  two  bade  their 
primitive  friends  good-bye  and  left  for  home,  the 
little  Indian  children  and  the  women  followed  their 
canoe  along  the  edge  of  a  stream  and  flung  handfuls 
of  flowers  after  them. 

Of  what  Meleese  Cummins  and  her  husband  know 
of  the  great  outside  world,  or  of  what  they  do  not 
know,  it  is  wisest  to  leave  unsaid.  Details  have  often 
marred  a  picture.  They  are  children  of  the  wilder 
ness,  born  of  that  wilderness,  bred  of  it,  and  life  of 
it — a  beating  and  palpitating  part  of  a  world  which 
few  can  understand.  I  doubt  if  one  or  the  other  has 
ever  heard  of  a  William  Shakespeare  or  a  Tennyson, 
for  it  has  not  been  in  my  mind  or  desire  to  ask ;  but 
they  do  know  the  human  heart  as  it  beats  and  throbs 
in  a  land  that  is  desolation  and  loneliness,  where 
poetry  runs  not  in  lines  and  meters,  but  in  the  bloom 
of  the  wild  flower,  the  rush  of  the  rapid,  the  thunder 
of  the  waterfall  and  the  murmuring  of  the  wind  in 
the  spruce  tops ;  where  drama  exists  not  in  the  epic 
lines  of  literature,  but  in  the  hunt  cry  of  the  wolf, 
the  death  dirges  of  the  storms  that  wail  down  from 
the  Barrens,  and  in  the  strange  cries  that  rise  up  out 
of  the  silent  forests,  where  for  a  half  of  each  year 
life  is  that  endless  strife  that  leaves  behind  only 
those  whom  we  term  the  survival  of  the  fittest. 


THE  CASE  OF  BEAUVAIS 

MADNESS?  Perhaps.  And  yet  if  it  was  mad 
ness.  .  .  . 

But  strange  things  happen  up  there,  gentlemen.  I 
have  found  it  sometimes  hard  to  define  that  word, 
There  are  so  many  kinds  of  madness,  so  many  ways 
in  which  the  human  brain  may  go  wrong;  and  so 
often  it  happens  that  what  we  call  madness  is  both 
reasonable  and  just.  It  is  so.  Yes.  A  little  reason 
is  good  for  us,  a  little  more  makes  wise  men  of  some 
of  us — but  when  our  reason  over-grows  us  and  we 
reach  too  far,  something  breaks  and  we  go  insane. 

But  I  will  tell  you  the  story.  That  is  what  yon 
want  to  hear,  and  you  expect  that  it  will  be  preju 
diced — that  I  will  either  deliberately  attempt  to  pro 
tect  and  prolong  a  human  life,  or  shorten  and 
destroy  it.  I  shall  do  neither,  gentlemen  of  the  Royal 
Mounted  Police.  I  have  a  faith  in  you  that  is  in  its 
way  an  unbounded  as  my  faith  in  God.  I  have 
looked  up  to  you  in  all  my  life  in  the  wilderness  as 
the  heart  of  chivalry  and  the  soul  of  honor  and  fair 
ness  to  all  men.  Pathfinders,  men  of  iron,  guardians 
of  people  and  spaces  of  which  civilization  knows  but 
little,  I  have  taught  my  children  of  the  forests  to 

115 


116          BACK   TO    GOD'S    COUNTEY 

honor,  obey  and  to  trust  you.  And  so  I  shall  tell 
you  the  story  without  prejudice,  with  the  gratitude 
of  a  missioner  who  has  lived  his  life  for  forty  years 
in  the  wilderness,  gentlemen. 

I  am  a  Catholic.  It  is  four  hundred  miles  straight 
north  by  dog-sledge  or  snowshoe  to  my  cabin,  and 
this  is  the  first  time  in  nineteen  years  that  I  have 
been  down  to  the  edge  of  the  big  world  which  I 
remember  now  as  little  more  than  a  dream.  But  up 
there  I  knew  that  my  duty  lay,  just  at  the  edge  of 
the  Big  Barren.  See!  My  hands  are  knotted  like 
the  snarl  of  a  tree.  The  glare  of  your  lights  hurts 
my  eyes.  I  traveled  to-day  in  the  middle  of  your 
street  because  my  moccasined  feet  stumbled  on  the 
smoothness  of  your  walks.  People  stared,  and  some 
of  them  laughed. 

Forty  years  I  have  lived  in  another  world.  You 
— and  especially  you  gentlemen  who  have  trailed  in 
the  Patrols  of  the  north — know  what  that  world  is. 
As  it  shapes  different  hands,  as  it  trains  different 
feet,  as  it  gives  to  us  different  eyes,  so  also  it  has 
bred  into  my  forest  children  hearts  and  souls  that 
may  be  a  little  different,  and  a  code  of  right  and 
wrong  that  too  frequently  has  had  no  court  of  law 
'to  guide  it.  So  judge  fairly,  gentlemen  of  the  Eoyal 
Mounted  Police!  Understand,  if  you  can. 

It  was  a  terrible  winter — that  winter  of  Le  Mort 
Rouge.  So  far  down  as  men  and  children  now 
living  will  remember,  it  will  be  called  by  my  people 
the  winter  of  Famine  and  Eed  Death.  Starvation, 
gentlemen — and  the  smallpox.  People  died  like — 


THE   CASE   OF   BEAUVAIS  117 

what  shall  I  say?  It  is  not  easy  to  describe  a  thing 
like  that.  They  died  in  tepees.  They  died  in  shacks. 
They  died  on  the  trail.  From  late  December  until 
March  I  said  my  prayers  over  the  dead.  You  are 
wondering  what  all  this  has  to  do  with  my  story; 
why  it  matters  that  the  caribou  had  migrated  in 
vast  herds  to  the  westward,  and  there  was  no  food ; 
why  it  matters  that  there  were  famine  and  plague  in 
the  great  unknown  land,  and  that  people  were  dying 
and  our  world  going  through  a  cataclysm.  My  back 
woods  eyes  can  see  your  thought.  What  has  all  this 
to  do  with  Joseph  Brecht?  What  has  it  to  do  with 
Andre  Beauvais  ?  Why  does  this  little  forest  priest 
take  up  so  much  time  in  telling  so  little?  you  ask. 
And  because  it  has  its  place — because  it  has  its  mean 
ing — I  ask  you  for  permission  to  tell  my  story  in 
my  own  way.  For  these  sufferings,  this  hunger  and 
pestilence  and  death,  had  a  strange  and  terrible 
effect  on  many  human  creatures  that  were  left  alive 
when  spring  came.  It  was  like  a  great  storm  that 
had  swept  through  a  forest  of  tall  trees.  A  storm  of 
-suffering  that  left  heads  bowed,  shoulders  bent,  and 
minds  gone.  Yes,  gone! 

Since  that  winter,  of  Le  Mort  Rouge  I  know 
of  eyes  into  which  the  life  of  laughter  will  never 
come  again;  I  know  of  strong  men  who  became  as 
little  children ;  I  have  seen  faces  that  were  fair  with 
youth  shrivel  into  age — and  my  people  call  it  noot' 
akutawin  Jceskivawin — the  cold  and  hungry  madness,* 
May  God  help  Andre  Beauvais  I 

I  will  tell  the  story  now, 


118          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTEY 

It  was  in  June.  The  last  of  the  mush-snows  had 
gone  early,  nearly  a  fortnight  before,  and  the  waters 
were  free  from  ice,  when  word  was  brought  to 
me  that  Father  Boget  was  dying  at  Old  Fort  Eeli- 
ance.  Father  Boget  was  twenty  years  older  than 
I,  and  I  called  him  mon  pere.  He  was  a  father 
to  me  in  our  earlier  years.  I  made  haste 
to  reach  him  that  I  might  hold  his  hand  before 
he  died,  if  that  was  possible.  And  you,  Sergeant 
McVeigh,  who  have  spent  years  in  that  country  of 
the  Great  Slave,  know  what  a  race  with  death  from 
Christie  Bay  to  Old  Fort  Eeliance  would  be.  To 
follow  the  broken  and  twisted  waters  of  the  Great 
Slave  would  mean  two  hundred  miles,  while  to  cut 
straight  across  the  land  by  smaller  streams  and 
lakelets  meant  less  than  seventy.  But  on  your  maps 
that  space  of  seventy  miles  is  a  blank.  You  have 
in  it  no  streams  and  no  larger  waters.  You  know 
little  of  it.  But  I  can  tell  you,  for  I  have  been  though 
it.  It  is  a  Lost  Hell.  It  is  a  vast  country  in  which 
berry  bushes  grow  abundantly,  but  on  which  there 
are  no  berries,  where  there  are  forests  and  swamps, 
but  not  a  living  creature  to  inhabit  them ;  a  country 
of  water  in  which  there  are  no  fish,  of  air  in  which 
there  are  no  birds,  of  plants  without  flowers — a  reek 
ing,  stinking  country  of  brimstone,  a  hell.  In  your 
Blue  Books  you  have  called  it  the  Sulphur  Country. 
And  this  country,  as  you  draw  a  line  from  Christie 
Bay  to  Old  Fort  Eeliance,  is  straight  between. 
mon  pere  was  dying,  and  my  time  was  short.  I 
decided  to  venture  it — cut  across  that  Sulphur  Conn- 


THE   CASE   OF  BEAUVAIS  119 

try,  and  I  sought  for  a  man  to  accompany  me.  I 
conld  find  none.  To  the  Indian  it  was  the  land  of 
Wetikoo — the  Devil  Country;  to  the  Breeds  it 
was  filled  with  horror.  Forty  miles  distant  there 
was  a  man  I  knew  would  go,  a  white  man.  But  to 
reach  him  would  lose  me  three  days,  and  I  was  about 
to  set  out  alone  when  the  stranger  came. 

He  was,  indeed,  a  strange  man.  When  he  came  to 
what  I  called  my  chateau,  from  nowhere,  going 
nowhere,  I  hardly  knew  whether  to  call  him  young 
or  old.  But  I  made  my  guess.  That  terrible  winter 
had  branded  him.  When  I  asked  him  his  name,  he 
said: 

"I  am  a  wanderer,  and  in  wandering  I  have  lost 
my  name.  Call  me  M'sieu." 

I  found  this  was  a  long  speech  for  him,  that  his 
tongue  was  tied  by  a  horrible  silence.  When  I  told 
him  where  I  was  going,  and  described  the  country 
I  was  going  through,  and  that  I  wanted  a  man,  he 
merely  nodded  that  he  would  accompany  me. 

We  started  in  a  canoe,  and  I  placed  him  ahead  of 
me  so  that  I  could  make  out,  if  I  could,  something 
of  what  he  was.  His  hair  was  dark.  His  beard 
was  dark.  His  eyes  were  sunken  but  strangely 
clear.  They  puzzled  me.  They  were  always  quest 
ing.  Always  seeking.  And  always  expecting,  it 
seemed  to  me.  A  man  of  unfathomable  mystery,  of 
unutterable  tragedy,  of  a  silence  that  was  almost  in- 
iiuman.  Was  he  mad!  I  ask  you,  gentlemen — was 
he  mad!  And  I  leave  the  answer  to  you.  To  me  he 
was  good.  When  I  told  him  what  mon  vere  had 


120          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

been  to  me,  and  that  I  wanted  to  reach  him  before 
he  died,  he  spoke  no  word  of  hope  or  sympathy — 
but  worked  until  his  muscles  cracked.  We  ate  to 
gether,  we  drank  together,  we  slept  side  by  side — • 
and  it  was  like  eating  and  drinking  and  sleeping  with 
a  sphinx  which  some  strange  miracle  had  endowed 
with  life. 

The  second  day  we  entered  the  Sulphur  Country. 
The  stink  of  it  was  in  our  nostrils  that  second  night 
we  camped.  The  moon  rose,  and  we  saw  it  as  if 
through  the  fumes  of  a  yellow  smoke.  Far  behind 
us  we  heard  a  wolf  howl,  and  it  was  the  last  sound 
of  life.  With  the  dawn  we  went  on.  We  passed 
through  broad,  low  morasses  out  of  which  rose  the 
sulphurous  fogs.  In  many  places  the  water  we 
touched  with  our  hands  was  hot ;  in  other  places  the 
forests  we  paddled  through  were  so  dense  they  were 
almost  tropical.  And  lifeless.  Still,  with  the  still 
ness  of  death  for  thousands  and  perhaps  tens  of 
thousands  of  years.  The  food  we  ate  seemed  satu 
rated  with  the  vileness  of  sulphur ;  it  seeped  into  our 
water-bags;  it  turned  us  to  the  color  of  saffron;  it 
was  terrible,  frightening,  inconceivable.  And  still 
we  went  on  by  compass,  and  M'sieu  showed  no  fear 
— even  less,  gentlemen,  than  did  I. 

And  then,  on  the  third  day — in  the  heart  of  this 
diseased  and  horrible  region — we  made  a  discovery 
that  drew  a  strange  cry  even  from  those  mysteri 
ously  silent  lips  of  M'sieu. 

It  was  the  print  of  a  naked  human  foot  in  a  bar  of 
mod. 


THE   CASE   OF  BEAUVAIS  121 

Bow  it  came  there,  why  it  was  there,  and  why  it 
was  a  naked  foot  I  suppose  were  the  first  thoughts 
that  leaped  into  our  startled  minds.  What  man 
could  live  in  these  infernal  regions?  Was  it  a.  man, 
or  was  it  the  footprint  of  some  primeval  ape,  a 
monstrous  survival  of  the  centuries? 

The  trail  led  through  a  steaming  slough  in  whiclj 
the  mud  and  water  were  tepid  and  which  grew  ran^ 
with  yellow  reeds  and  thick  grasses — grasses  that 
were  almost  flesh-like,  it  seemed  to  me,  as  if  swolleii 
and  about  to  burst  from  some  dreadful  disease. 
Perhaps  your  scientists  can  tell  why  sulphur  ha4 
this  effect  on  vegetation.  It  is  so ;  there  was  sulphuif 
in  the  very  wood  we  burned.  Through  those  reeds 
and  grasses  we  soon  found  where  a  narrow  trail 
was  beaten,  and  then  we  came  to  a  rise  of  land  shel 
tered  in  timber,  a  sort  of  hill  in  that  flat  world,  and 
on  the  crest  of  this  hill  we  found  a  cabin. 

Yes,  a  cabin;  a  cabin  built  roughly  of  logs,  and 
it  was  yellow  with  sulphur,  as  if  painted.  We  went 
inside  and  we  found  there  the  man  whom  you  know 
as  Joseph  Brecht.  I  did  not  look  at  M'sieu  when 
he  first  rose  before  us,  but  I  heard  a  great  gasp  from 
his  throat  behind  me.  And  I  think  I  stood  as  if 
life  had  suddenly  gone  out  of  me.  Joseph  Brecht 
was  half  naked.  His  feet  were  bare.  He  looked 
like  a  wild  man,  with  his  uncut  hair — a  wild  man 
except  that  his  face  was  smooth.  Curious  that  & 
man  would  shave  there!  And  not  so  odd,  perhaps, 
when  one  knows  how  a  beard  gathers  sulphur.  He 
had  risen  from  a  cot  on  which  there  was  a  bed  of 


122          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

boughs,  and  in  the  light  that  came  in  through  the 
open  door  he  looked  terribly  emaciated,  with  the 
skin  drawn  tightly  over  his  cheek  bones.  It  was  he 
who  spoke  first. 

"I  am  glad  yon  have  come,"  he  said,  his  eyes  star 
ing  wildly.  "I  gness  I  am  dying.  Some  water, 
please.  There  is  a  spring  back  of  the  cabin/' 

Qnite  sanely  he  spoke,  and  yet  the  words  were 
scarcely  out  of  his  month  when  he  fell  back  npon  the 
©ot,  his  eyes  rolling  in  the  top  of  his  head,  his  month 
agape,  his  breath  coming  in  great  panting  gasps. 

It  was  a  strange  sickness.  I  will  not  tronble  you 
with  all  the  details.  You  are  anxious  for  the  story 
— the  tragedy — which  alone  will  count  with  you  gen- 
Memen  of  the  law.  It  came  out  in  his  fever,  and  in 
the  fits  of  sanity  into  which  he  at  times  succeeded  in 
rousing  himself.  His  name,  he  said,  was  Joseph 
Brecht.  For  two  years  he  had  lived  in  that  sulphur 
hell.  He  had,  by  accident,  found  the  spring  of  fresh, 
sweet  water  trickling  out  of  the  hill — another  miracle 
for  which  I  have  not  tried  to  account;  he  built  his 
cabin ;  for  two  years  he  had  gone  with  his  canoe  to 
the  shore  of  the  great  Slave,  forty  miles  distant,  for 
the  food  he  ate.  But  ivhy  was  he  here?  That  was 
the  story  that  came  bit  by  bit,  half  in  his  fever,  half 
in  his  sanity.  I  will  tell  it  in  my  own  words. 

He  was  a  Government  man,  mapping  out  the  last 
timber  lines  along  the  edge  of  the  Great  Barren, 
when  he  first  met  Andre  Beauvais  and  his  wife, 
Marie.  An  accident  took  him  to  their  cabin,  a 
sprained  leg.  Andre  was  a  fox-hunter,  and  it  was 


123 

when  he  was  coming  home  from  one  of  his  trips 
that  he  found  Joseph  Brecht  helpless  in  the  deep 
snow,  and  carried  him  on  his  shoulders  to  his  cabin. 
Ah,  gentlemen,  it  was  the  old  story — the  story  old 
as  time.  In  his  sanity  he  told  us  about  Marie,  I 
hovering  over  him  closely,  M'sieu  sitting  back  in 
the  shadows.  She  was  like  some  wonderful  wild- 
flower,  French,  a  little  Indian.  He  told  us  how  her 
long  black  hair  would  stream  in  a  shining  cascade, 
soft  as  the  breast  of  a  swan,  to  her  knees  and  below; 
how  it  would  hang  again  in  two  great,  lustrous 
braids,  and  how  her  eyes  were  limpid  pools  that  s«t 
his  soul  afire,  and  how  her  slim,  beautiful  body  filled 
him  with  a  monstrous  desire.  She  must  have  been 
beautiful.  And  her  husband,  Andre  Beauvais,  wor 
shipped  her,  and  the  ground  she  trod  on.  And  he 
had  the  faith  in  her  that  a  mother  has  in  her  child. 
It  was  a  sublime  love,  and  Joseph  Brecht  told  us 
about  it  as  he  lay  there,  dying,  as  he  supposed.  In 
that  faith  of  his  Andre  went  unsuspectingly  to  his 
trap-lines  and  his  poison-trails,  and  Marie  and 
Joseph  were  for  many  hours  at  a  time  alone,  some 
times  for  a  day,  sometimes  for  two  days,  and  occa 
sionally  for  three,  for  even  after  his  limb  had  re 
gained  its  strength  Joseph  feigned  that  it  was  bad- 
It  was  a  hard  fight,  he  said — a  hard  fight  for  him 
to  win  her;  but  win  her  he  did,  utterly,  absolutely, 
heart,  body  and  soul.  Eemember,  he  was  from  the 
South,  with  all  its  power  of  language,  all  its  tricks 
of  love,  all  its  furtiveness  of  argument,  a  strong  man 
with  a  strong  mind — and  she  had  lived  all  her  life  in 


1S4          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTBY 

tiie  wilderness.  She  was  no  match  for  him.  She 
surrendered.  He  told  us  how,  after  that,  he  would 
unbind  her  wonderful  hair  and  pillow  his  face  in 
it ;  how  he  lived  in  a  heaven  of  transport,  how  utterly 
she  gave  herself  to  him  in  those  times  when  Andre 
was  away. 

Did  he  love  her? 

Yes,  in  that  mad  passion  of  the  brute.  But  not 
as  you  and  I  might  love  a  woman,  gentlemen.  Not 
as  Andre  loved  her.  "Whether  she  had  a  heart  or  a 
soul  it  did  not  matter.  His  eyes  were  blind  with  an 
Insensate  joy  when  he  shrouded  himself  in  her  won 
derful  hair.  To  see  the  wild  color  painting  her  face 
like  a  flower  filled  his  veins  with  fire.  The  beauty 
of  her,  the  touch  of  her,  the  mad  beat  of  her  heart 
against  him  made  him  like  a  drunken  man  in  his 
triumph.  Love?  Yes,  the  love  of  the  brute!  He 
prolonged  his  stay.  He  had  no  idea  of  taking  her 
with  him.  "When  the  time  came,  he  would  go.  Day 
after  day,  week  after  week  he  put  it  off,  feigning 
that  the  bone  of  his  leg  was  affected,  and  Andre 
Beauvais  treated  him  like  a  brother.  He  told  us  all 
this  as  he  lay  there  is  his  cabin  in  that  sulphur  hell 
I  am  a  man  of  God,  and  I  do  not  lie. 

Is  there  need  to  tell  you  that  Andre  discovered 
them?  Yes,  he  found  them — and  with  that  won 
derful  hair  of  hers  so  closely  about  them  that  he 
was  still  bound  in  the  tresses  when  the  discovery 
Came. 

Andre  had  come  in  exhausted,  and  unexpectedly. 
There  was  a  terrible  fight,  and  in  spite  of  his  ex- 


THE   CASE   OF   BEAUVAIS  125 

hanstion  he  would  have  killed  Joseph  Brecht  if  at 
the  last  moment  the  latter  had  not  drawn  his  re 
volver.  After  all  is  said  and  done,  gentlemen,  can 
a  woman  love  but  once?  Joseph  Brecht  fired.  In 
that  infinitesimal  moment  between  the  leveling-  of 
the  gun  and  the  firing  of  the  shot  Marie  Beauvais 
found  answer  to  that  question.  Who  was  it  she 
loved?  She  sprang  to  her  husband's  breast,  shelter 
ing  him  with  the  body  that  had  been  disloyal  to  its 
soul,  and  she  died  there — with  a  bullet  through  her 
heart. 

Joseph  Brecht  told  us  How,  in  the  horror  of  his 
work — and  possessed  now  by  a  terrible  fear — he  ran 
from  the  cabin  and  fled  for  his  life.  And  Andre 
Beauvais  must  have  remained  with  his  dead.  For  it 
was  many  hours  later  before  he  took  up  the  trail 
of  the  man  whom  he  made  solemn  oath  to  his  God 
to  kill.  Like  a  hunted  hare,  Joseph  Brecht  eluded 
him,  and  it  was  weeks  before  the  fox-trapper  came 
upon  him.  Andre  Beauvais  scorned  to  kill  him  from 
ambush.  He  wanted  to  choke  his  life  out  slowly, 
with  his  two  hands,  and  he  attacked  him  openly  and 
fairly. 

And  in  that  cabin — gasping  for  breath,  dying  as 
he  thought,  Joseph  Brecht  said  to  us:  ''It  was  one 
or  the  other.  He  had  the  best  of  me.  I  drew  my 
revolver  again — and  killed  him,  killed  Andre  Beau 
vais,  as  I  had  killed  his  wife,  Marie ! ' ' 

Here  in  the  South  Joseph  Brecht  might  not  have 
been  a  bad  man,  gentlemen.  In  every  man's  heart 
there  is  a  devil,  but  we  do  not  know  the  man  as 


126          BACK  TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

•bad  until  the  devil  is  roused.  And  passion,  the  ma3 
passion  for  a  woman,  had  roused  him.  Now  that  it 
had  made  twice  a  murderer  of  him  the  devil  slunk 
back  into  his  hiding,  and  the  man  who  had  once 
been  the  clean-living,  red-blooded  Joseph  Brecht 
was  only  a  husk  without  a  heart,  slinking  from  place 
to  place  in  the  evasion  of  justice.  For  you  men  of 
the  Eoyal  Mounted  Police  were  on  his  trail.  You 
would  have  caught  him,  but  you  did  not  think  of 
seeking  for  him  in  the  Sulphur  Hell.  For  two  years 
he  had  lived  there,  and  when  he  finished  his  story 
he  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  cot,  quite  sane, 
gentlemen. 

And  for  the  first  time  M  'sieu,  my  comrade,  spokes 

"Let  us  bring  up  the  dunnage  from  the  canoe, 
mon  pere." 

He  led  the  way  out  of  the  cabin,  and  I  followed 
We  were  fifty  steps  away  when  he  stopped  sud 
denly. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "I  have  forgotten  something.  I 
will  overtake  you." 

He  turned  back  to  the  cabin,  and  I  went  on  to  the 
canoe. 

He  did  not  join  me.  When  I  returned  with  my 
burden,  M'sieu  appeared  at  the  door.  He  amazed 
me,  startled  me,  I  will  say,  gentlemen.  I  could  not 
imagine  such  a  change  as  I  saw  in  him — that  man 
of  horrible  silence,  of  grim,  dark  mystery.  He  was 
smiling;  his  white  teeth  shone;  his  voice  was  the 
voice  of  another  man.  He  seemed  to  me  ten  years 
younger  as  he  stood  there,  and  as  I  dropped  my 


THE   CASE   OF   BEAUVAIS  127 

load  and  went  in  he  was  laughing,  and  his  hand 
was  laid  pleasantly  on  my  shoulder. 

Across  the  cot,  with  his  head  stretched  down  to 
the  floor,  his  eyes  bulging  and  his  jaws  agape,  lay 
Joseph  Brecht.  I  sprang  to  him.  He  was  dead. 
And  then  I  sawB  Gentlemen,  he  had  been  choked 
to  death! 

"He  made  one  leetle  meestake,  mon  pere. 
Andre  Beauvais  did  not  die.  I  am  Andre  Beau- 
vais." 

That  is  all,  gentlemen  of  the  Eoyal  Mounted.  May 
the  Law  have  mercy ! 


THE  OTHER  MAN'S  WIFE 

THORNTON  wasn't  the  sort  of  man  in  whom  you'd 
expect  to  find  the  devil  lurking.  He  was  big,  blond, 
and  broad-shouldered.  When  I  first  saw  him  I 
thought  he  was  an  Englishman.  That  was  at  the 
post  at  Lac  la  Biche,  six  hundred  miles  north  of 
civilization.  Scotty  and  I  had  been  doing  some  ex 
ploration  work  for  the  government,  and  for  more 
than  six  months  we  hadn't  seen  a  real  white  man 
Who  looked  like  home. 

"We  came  in  late  at  night,  and  the  factor  gave  us 
a  room  in  his  house.  When  we  looked  out  of  our 
window  in  the  morning,  we  saw  a  little  shack  about 
a  hundred  feet  away,  and  in  front  of  that  shack  was 
Thornton,  only  half  dressed,  stretching  himself  in 
the  sun,  and  laughing.  There  wasn't  anything 
to  laugh  at,  but  we  could  see  his  teeth  shining  white, 
and  he  grinned  every  minute  while  he  went  through 
a  sort  of  setting-up  exercise. 

When  you  begin  to  analyze  a  man,  there  is  always 
some  one  human  trait  that  rises  above  all  others, 
and  that  laugh  was  Thornton's.  Even  the  wolfish 
sledge-dogs  at  the  post  would  wag  their  tails  when 
they  heard  it. 

128 


129 

We  soon  established  friendly  relations,  but  I  could 
not  get  very  far  beyond  the  laugh.  Indeed,  Thorn 
ton  was  a  mystery.  DeBar,  the  factor,  said  that 
jhe  had  dropped  into  the  post  six  months  before, 
with  a  pack  on  his  back  and  a  rifle  over  his  shoulder. 
He  had  no  business,  apparently.  He  was  not  a  pro- 
pectory  and  it  was  only  now  and  then  that  he  used 
ihis  rifle,  and  then  only  to  shoot  at  marks. 

One  thing  puzzled  DeBar  more  than  all  else< 
Thornton  worked  like  three  men  about  the  post,  cut 
ting  winter  fire-wood,  helping  to  catch  and  clean  the 
tons  of  whitefish  which  were  stored  away  for  the 
dogs  in  the  company's  ice-houses,  and  doing  other 
things  without  end.  For  this  he  refused  all  pay 
ment  except  his  rations. 

Scotty  continued  eastward  to  Churchill,  and  for 
seven  weeks  I  bunked  with  Thornton  in  the  shack. 
At  the  end  of  those  seven  weeks  I  knew  little  more 
about  Thornton  than  at  the  beginning.  I  never  had 
a  closer  or  more  congenial  chum,  and  yet  in  his  con 
versation  he  never  got  beyond  the  big  woods,  the 
mountains,  and  the  tangled  swamps.  He  was  edu 
cated  and  a  gentleman,  and  I  knew  that  in  spite  of 
his  brown  face  and  arms,  his  hard  muscles  and 
splendid  health,  he  was  three-quarters  tenderfoot. 
But  he  loved  the  wilderness. 

"I  never  knew  what  life  could  hold  for  a  man 
until  I  came  up  here,"  he  said  to  me  one  day,  his 
gray  eyes  dancing  in  the  light  of  a  glorious  sunset. 
"I'm  ten  years  younger  than  I  was  two  years  ago." 

"You've  been  two  years  in  the  north?" 


130          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

"A  year  and  ten  months,"  he  replied. 

Something  brought  to  my  lips  the  words  that  I 
had  forced  back  a  score  of  times. 

' 'What  brought  you  up  here,  Thornton?" 

1  'Two  things,"  he  said  quietly,  "a  woman — and  a 
scoundrel." 

He  said  no  more,  and  I  did  not  press  the  matter. 
There  was  a  strange  tremble  in  his  voice,  something 
that  I  took  to  be  a  note  of  sadness;  but  when  he 
turned  from  the  sunset  to  me  his  eyes  were  filled 
with  a  yet  stranger  joy,  and  his  big  boyish  laugh 
rang  out  with  such  wholesome  infectiousness  that  I 
laughed  with  him,  in  spite  of  myself. 

That  night,  in  our  shack,  he  produced  a  tightly 
bound  bundle  of  letters  about  six  inches  thick,  scat 
tered  them  out  before  him  on  the  table,  and  began 
reading  them  at  random,  while  I  sat  bolstered  back 
in  my  bunk,  smoking  and  watching  him.  He  was  a 
curious  study.  Every  little  while  I'd  hear  him 
chuckling  and  rumbling,  his  teeth  agleam,  and  be 
tween  these  times  he'd  grow  serious.  Once  I  saw 
tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks. 

He  puzzled  me ;  and  the  more  he  puzzled  me,  the 
better  I  liked  him.  Every  night  for  a  week  he  spent 
an  hour  or  two  reading  those  letters  over  and  over 
again.  I  had  a  dozen  opportunities  to  see  that  they 
were  a  woman's  letters :  but  he  never  offered  a  word 
of  explanation. 

With  the  approach  of  September,  I  made  prepa 
rations  to  leave  for  the  south,  by  way  of  Moose 
Factory  and  the  Albany. 


THE    OTHER   MAN'S   WIFE  131 

"Why  not  go  the  shorter  way — by  the  Reindeer 
Lake  water  route  to  Prince  Albert?"  asked  Thorn 
ton.  "If  you'll  do  that,  I'll  go  with  you." 

His  proposition  delighted  me,  and  we  began  plan 
ning  for  our  trip.  From  that  hour  there  came  a 
curious*  change  in  Thornton.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
come  into  contact  with  some  mysterious  dynamo  that 
had  charged  him  with  a  strange  nervous  energy.  We 
were  two  days  in  getting  our  stuff  ready,  and  the 
night  between  he  did  not  go  to  bed  at  all,  but  sat 
up  reading  the  letters,  smoking,  and  then  reading 
over  again  what  he  had  read  half  a  hundred  times 
before. 

I  was  pretty  well  hardened,  but  during  the  first 
week  of  our  canoe  trip  he  nearly  had  me  bushed  a 
dozen  times.  He  insisted  on  getting  away  before 
dawn,  laughing,  singing,  and  and  talking,  and  urged 
on  the  pace  until  sunset.  I  don't  believe  that  he 
slept  two  hours  a  night.  Often,  when  I  woke  up, 
I'd  see  him  walking  back  and  forth  in  the  moonlight, 
humming  softly  to  himself.  There  was  almost  a 
touch  of  madness  in  it  all ;  but  I  knew  that  Thorn 
ton  was  sane. 

One  night — our  fourteenth  down — I  awoke  a  little 
after  midnight,  and  as  usual  looked  about  for  Thorn 
ton.  It  was  glorious  night.  There  was  a  full  moon 
over  us,  and  with  the  lake  at  our  feet,  and  the  spruce 
and  balsam  forest  on  each  side  of  us,  the  whole  scene 
struck  me  as  one  of  the  most  beautiful  I  had  ever 
looked  upon. 

When  I  came  out  of  our  tent,  Thornton  was  not  in 


132          BACK   TO   GOD'S    COUNTKY 

sight.  Away  across  the  lake  I  heard  a  moose  call 
ing.  Back  of  me  an  owl  hooted  softly,  and  from 
miles  away  I  could  hear  faintly  the  howling  of  a 
wolf.  The  night  sounds  were  broken  by  my  own 
startled  cry  as  I  felt  a  hand  fall,  without  warning, 
upon  my  shoulder.  It  was  Thornton.  I  had  never 
seen  his  face  as  it  looked  just  then. 

"  Isn't  it  beautiful  —  glorious?"  he  cried  softly. 

"It's  wonderful!"  I  said.  "You  won't  see  this 
down  there,  Thornton!" 

"Nor  hear  those  sounds,"  he  replied,  his  hand. 
tightening  on  my  arm.  "We're  pretty  close  to  God 
up  here,  aren't  we?  She'll  like  it  —  I'll  bring  her 
back!" 

"She!" 

He  looked  at  me,  his  teeth  shining  in  that  wonder 
ful  silent  laugh. 

"I'm  going  to  tell  you  about  it,"  he  said.  "I 
can't  keep  it  in  any  longer.  Let's  go  down  by  the 
lake." 

We  walked  down  and  seated  ourselves  on  the  edge 
of  a  big  rock. 

'  '  I  told  you  that  I  came  up  here  because  of  a  woman 
—  and  a  man,"  continued  Thornton.  "Well,  I  did. 
The  man  and  woman  were  husband  and  wife,  and 


He  interrupted  himself  with  one  of  his  chuckling 
laughs.  There  was  something  in  it  that  made  me 
shudder. 

"No  use  to  tell  you  that  I  loved  her,"  he  went 
on.  "I  worshipped  her.  She  was  my  life.  And 


THE    OTHER   MAN'S   WIFE  133 

I  believe  she  loved  me  as  much.  I  might  have  added 
that  there  was  a  third  thing  that  drove  me  up  here 
— what  remained  of  the  rag  end  of  a  man's  honor." 

"I  begin  to  understand,"  I  said,  as  he  paused. 
"You  oame  up  here  to  get  away  from  the  woman. 
But  this  woman — her  husband 

For  the  first  time  since  I  had  known  him  I  saw 
a  flash  of  anger  leap  into  Thornton's  face.  He 
Struck  his  hand  against  the  rock. 

"Her  husband  was  a  scoundrel,  a  brute,  who  came 
home  from  his  club  drunk,  a  cheap  money-spender, 
a  man  who  wasn  't  fit  to  wipe  the  mud  from  her  little 
feet,  much  less  call  her  wife!  He  ought  to  have 
been  shot.  I  can  see  it,  now;  and — well,  I  might 
as  well  tell  you.  I'm  going  back  to  her!" 

"You  are?"  I  cried.  " Has  she  got  a  divorce ?  Is 
her  husband  still  living?" 

"No,  she  hasn't  got  a  divorce,  and  her  husband 
is  still  living;  but  for  all  that,  we've  arranged  it. 
Those  were  her  letters  I've  been  reading,  and  she'll 
foe  at  Prince  Albert  waiting  for  me  on  the  15th — 
three  days  from  now.  We  shall  be  a  little  late,  and 
that's  why  I'm  hustling  so.  I've  kept  away  from 
her  for  two  years,  but  I  can't  do  it  any  longer — 
and  she  says  that  if  I  do  she'll  kill  herself.  So  there 
you  have  it.  She 's  the  sweetest,  most  beautiful  girl 
in  the  whole  world — eyes  the  color  of  thos.e  blue 
flowers  you  have  up  here,  brown  hair,  and — but 
you've  got  to  see  her  when  we  reach  Prince  Albert. 
lYon  won't  blame  me  for  doing  all  this,  then!" 

I  had  nothing  to  say.    At  my  silence  he  turned 


134          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTEY 

toward  me  suddenly,  with,  that  happy  smile  of  his, 
and  said  again: 

"I  tell  yon  that  yon  won't  blame  me  when  yon  see 
her.  Yon '11  envy  me,  and  yon '11  call  me  a  con- 
fonnded  fool  for  staying  away  so  long.  It  has  been 
terribly  hard  for  both  of  ns.  I'll  wager  that  she's 
no  sleepier  than  I  am  to-night,  just  from  knowing 
that  I'm  hurrying  to  her." 

"  You're  pretty  confident,"  I  could  not  help  sneer 
ing.  "I  don't  believe  I'd  wager  much  on  such  a 
woman.  To  be  frank  with  you,  Thornton,  I  don't 
care  to  meet  her,  so  I'll  decline  your  invitation. 
I've  a  little  wife  of  my  own,  as  true  as  steel,  and 
I'd  rather  keep  out  of  an  affair  like  this.  You  under 
stand?" 

"Perfectly,"  said  Thornton,  and  there  was  not 
the  slightest  ill-humor  in  his  voice.  "Yon — you 
think  I  am  a  cur  f ' ' 

"If  you  have  stolen  another  man's  wife — yes." 
* '  And  the  woman  f '  * 

"If  she  is  betraying  her  husband,  she  is  no  better 
than  yon." 

Thornton  rose  and  stretched  his  long  arms  above 
his  head. 

"Isn't  the  moon  glorious?"  he  cried  exultantly. 
"She  has  never  seen  a  moon  like  that.  She  has 
never  seen  a  world  like  this.  Do  you  know  what 
we're  going  to  do?  We'll  come  up  here  and  build 
a  cabin,  and — and  she'll  know  what  a  real  man  is 
at  last !  She  deserves  it.  And  we  '11  have  yon  up  to 
visit  ns — yon  and  your  wife — two  months  out  of 


THE    OTHEK   MAN'S   WIFE  135 

each  year.  But  then" — he  turned  and  laughed 
squarely  into  my  face — "you  probably  won't  want 
your  wife  to  know  her/' 

"Probably  not,"  I  said,  not  without  embarrass 
ment. 

"I  don't  blame  you,"  he  exclaimed,  and  before  I 
could  draw  back  he  had  caught  my  hand  and  was 
shaking  it  hard  in  his  own.  "Let's  be  friends  a  little 
longer,  old  man, ' '  he  went  on.  ' '  I  know  you  '11  change 
your  mind  about  the  little  girl  and  me  when  we  reach 
Prince  Albert." 

I  didn't  go  to  sleep  again  that  night;  and  the 
half-dozen  days  that  followed  were  unpleasant 
enough — for  me,  at  least.  In  spite  of  my  own  cool 
ness  toward  him,  there  was  absolutely  no  change  in 
Thornton.  Not  once  did  he  make  any  further  allu 
sion  to  what  he  had  told  me. 

As  we  drew  near  to  our  journey's  end,  his  en 
thusiasm  and  good  spirits  increased.  He  had  the 
bow  end  of  the  canoe,  and  I  had  abundant  oppor 
tunity  of  watching  him.  It  was  impossible  not  to 
like  him,  even  after  I  knew  his  story. 

"We  reached  Prince  Albert  on  a  Sunday,  after 
three  days'  travel  in  a  buckboard.  When  we  drove 
up  in  front  of  the  hotel,  there  was  just  one  person 
on  the  long  veranda  looking  out  over  the  Saskatche 
wan.  It  was  a  woman,  reading  a  book. 

As  he  saw  her,  I  heard  a  great  breath  heave  up 
inside  Thornton's  chest.  The  woman  looked  up, 
stared  for  a  moment,  and  then  dropped  her  book 
with  a  welcoming  cry  such  as  I  had  never  heard 


136          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

before  in  my  life.  She  sprang  down  the  steps,  and 
and  Thornton  leaped  from  the  wagon.  They  met 
there  a  dozen  paces  from  me,  Thornton  catching  her 
in  his  arms,  and  the  woman  clasping  her  arms  about 
his  neck. 

I  heard  her  sobbing,  and  I  saw  Thornton  kissing 
iher  again  and  again,  and  then  the  woman  pulled 
his  blond  head  down  close  to  her  face.  It  was  sick 
ening,  knowing  what  I  did,  and  I  began  helping  the 
driver  to  throw  off  our  dunnage. 

In  about  two  minutes  I  heard  Thornton  calling 
me. 

I  didn't  turn  my  head.  Then  Thornton  came  to 
me,  and  as  he  straightened  me  around  by  the  shoul 
ders  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  woman.  He  was 
right — she  was  very  beautiful. 

"I  told  you  that  her  husband  was  a  scoundrel  and 
a  rake,"  he  said  gently.  "Well,  he  was — and  I  was 
that  scoundrel !  I  came  up  here  for  a  chance  of  re 
deeming  myself,  and  your  big,  glorious  North  has 
made  a  man  of  me.  Will  you  come  and  meet  my 
wife?" 


THE  STRENGTH  OF  MEN 

THEEE  was  the  scent  of  battle  in  the  air.  The 
whole  of  Porcupine  City  knew  that  it  was  coming, 
and  every  man  and  woman  in  its  two  hundred  popu 
lation  held  their  breath  in  anticipation  of  the  strug 
gle  between  two  men  for  a  fortune — and  a  girl. 
For  in  some  mysterious  manner  rumor  of  the  girl 
had  got  abroad,  passing  from  lip  to  lip,  until  even 
the  children  knew  that  there  was  some  other  thing 
than  gold  that  would  play  a  part  in  the  fight  between 
Clarry  O'Grady  and  Jan  Larose.  On  the  surface 
it  was  not  scheduled  to  be  a  fight  with  fists  or  guns. 
But  in  Porcupine  City  there  were  a  few  who  knew 
ifce  "inner  story "— the  story  of  the  girl,  as  well 
as  the  gold,  and  those  among  them  who  feared  the 
law  would  have  arbitrated  in  a  different  manner 
for  the  two  men  if  it  had  been  in  their  power.  But 
law  is  law,  and  the  code  was  the  code.  There  was 
no  alternative.  It  was  an  unusual  situation,  and  yet 
apparently  simple  of  solution.  Eighty  miles  north, 
as  the  canoe  was  driven,  young  Jan  Larose  had  one 
day  staked  out  a  rich  "find"  at  the  headwaters  of 
Pelican  Creek.  The  same  day,  but  later,  Clarry 
O'Grady  had  driven  his  stakes  beside  Jan's.  It 
had  been  a  race  to  the  mining  recorder's  office,  and 

137 


138          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

they  had  come  in  neck  and  neck.  Popular  sentiment 
favored  Larose,  the  slim,  quiet,  dark-eyed  half 
Frenchman.  But  there  was  the  law,  which  had  no 
sentiment.  The  recorder  had  sent  an  agent  north 
to  investigate.  If  there  were  two  sets  of  stakes 
there  could  be  but  one  verdict.  Both  claims  would 
be  thrown  out,  and  then 

All  knew  what  would  happen,  or  thought  that  they 
knew.  It  would  be  a  magnificent  race  to  see  who 
could  set  out  fresh  stakes  and  return  to  the 
recorder's  office  ahead  of  the  other.  It  would  be 
a  fight  of  brawn  and  brain,  unless — and  those  few 
who  knew  the  "inner  story"  spoke  softly  among 
themselves. 

An  ox  in  strength,  gigantic  in  build,  with  a  face 
that  for  days  had  worn  a  sneering  smile  of  triumph, 
0  'Grady  was  already  picked  as  a  ten-to-one  winner. 
He  was  a  magnificent  canoeman,  no  man  in  Porcu 
pine  City  could  equal  him  for  endurance,  and  for 
his  bow  paddle  he  had  the  best  Indian  in  the  whole 
Reindeer  Lake  country.  He  stalked  up  and  down 
the  one  street  of  Porcupine  City,  treating  to  drinks, 
cracking  rough  jokes,  and  offering  wagers,  while  Jan 
Larose  and  his  long-armed  Cree  sat  quietly  in  the 
shade  of  the  recorder's  office  waiting  for  the  final 
moment  to  come. 

There  were  a  few  of  those  who  knew  the  "inner 
story"  who  saw  something  besides  resignation  and 
despair  in  Jan's  quiet  aloofness,  and  in  the  discon 
solate  droop  of  his  head.  His  face  turned  a  shade 
whiter  when  0 'Grady  passed  near,  dropping  insult, 


THE   STKENGTH  OF  MEN         139 

and  tannt,  and  looking  sidewise  at  him  in  a  way 
that  only  he  could  understand.  But  he  made  no 
retort,  though  his  dark  eyes  glowed  with  a  fire  that 
never  quite  died — unless  it  was  when,  alone  and 
unobserved,  he  took  from  his  pocket  a  bit  of  buckskin 
'in  which  was  a  silken  tress  of  curling  brown  hair. 
-Then  his  eyes  shone  with  a  light  that  was  soft  and 
luminous,  and  one  seeing  him  then  would  have  known 
that  it  was  not  a  dream  of  gold  that  filled  his  heart, 
but  of  a  brown-haired  girl  who  had  broken  it. 

On  this  day,  the  forenoon  of  the  sixth  since  the 
agent  had  departed  into  the  north,  the  end  of  the 
tense  period  of  waiting  was  expected.  Porcupine 
City  had  almost  ceased  to  carry  on  the  daily  monot 
ony  of  business.  A  score  were  lounging  about  the  re 
corder's  office.  Women  looked  forth  at  frequent  inter 
vals  through  the  open  doors  of  the  "city's"  cabins, 
or  gathered  in  two  and  threes  to  discuss  this  biggest 
sporting  event  ever  known  in  the  history  of  the  town. 
Not  a  minute  but  scores  of  anxious  eyes  were  turned 
searchingly  up  the  river,  down  which  the  returning 
agent 's  canoe  would  first  appear.  "With  the  dawn  of 
this  day  O'Grady  had  refused  to  drink.  He  was 
stripped  to  the  waist.  His  laugh  was  louder. 
Hatred  as  well  as  triumph  glittered  in  his  eyes,  for 
to-day  Jan  Larose  looked  him  coolly  and  squarely 
in  the  face,  and  nodded  whenever  he  passed.  It  was 
almost  noon  when  Jan  spoke  a  few  low  words  to  his 
watchful  Indian  and  walked  to  the  top  of  the  cedar- 
capped  ridge  that  sheltered  Porcupine  City  from 
the  north  winds. 


140          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

From  this  ridge  he  could  look  straight  info  tlie 
north — the  north  where  he  was  born.  Only  the  Cree 
knew  that  for  five  nights  he  had  slept,  or  sat  awake, 
on  the  top  of  this  ridge,  with  his  face  turned  toward 
the  polar  star,  and  his  heart  breaking  with  loneli 
ness  and  grief.  Up  there,  far  beyond  where  tJhe 
green-topped  forests  and  the  sky  seemed  to  meet, 
he  could  see  a  little  cabin  nestling  under  the  stars 
— and  Marie.  Always  his  mind  traveled  back  to  the 
beginning  of  things,  no  matter  how  hard  he  tried 
to  forget — even  to  the  old  days  of  years  and  years 
ago  when  he  had  toted  the  little  Marie  around  on 
his  back,  and  had  crumpled  her  brown  curls,  and 
had  revealed  to  her  one  by  one  the  marvelous  mys 
teries  of  the  wilderness,  with  never  a  thought  of  the 
wonderful  love  that  was  to  come.  A  half  frozen 
little  outcast  brought  in  from  the  deep  snows  one 
day  by  Marie  's  father,  he  became  first  her  playmate 
and  brother — and  after  that  lived  in  a  few  swift 
years  of  paradise  and  dreams.  For  Marie  he  foatl 
made  of  himself  what  he  was.  He  had  gone  'to 
Montreal.  He  had  learned  to  read  and  write,  he 
worked  for  the  Company,  he  came  to  know  the  out 
side  world,  and  at  last  the  Government  employed 
him.  This  was  a  triumph.  He  could  still  see  the 
glow  of  pride  and  love  in  Marie's  beautiful  eyes 
when  he  came  home  after  those  two  years  in  the 
great  city.  The  Government  sent  for  him  each 
autumn  after  that.  Deep  into  the  wilderness  he  led 
the  men  who  made  the  red  and  black  lined  maps. 
It  was  he  who  blazed  out  the  northern  limit  of  Bock- 


THE   STRENGTH  OF  MEN         1M 

slan  pine,  and  his  name  was  in  Government  reports 
— down  in  black  and  white — so  that  Marie  and  all 
the  world  could  read. 

One  day  he  came  back — and  he  found  Clarry 
O'Grady  at  the  Cummins'  cabin.  He  had  been  there 
for  a  month  with  a  broken  leg.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
dangerous  knowledge  of  the  power  of  her  beauty — the 
woman's  instinct  in  her  to  tease  with  her  prettiness, 
that  led  to  Marie 's  flirtation  with  0  'Grady.  But  Jan 
could  not  understand,  and  she  played  with  fire — the 
fire  of  two  hearts  instead  of  one.  The  world  went  to 
pieces  under  Jan  after  that.  There  came  the  day 
when,  in  fair  fight,  he  choked  the  taunting  sneer 
from  0 'Grady 's  face  back  in  the  woods.  He  fought 
like  a  tiger,  a  mad  demon.  No  one  ever  knew  of  that 
fight.  And  with  the  demon  still  raging  in  his  breast  he 
faced  the  girl.  He  could  never  quite  remember  what 
he  had  said.  But  it  was  terrible — and  came  straight 
from  his  soul.  Then  he  went  out,  leaving  Marie  stand 
ing  there  white  and  silent.  He  did  not  go  back.  He 
had  sworn  never  to  do  that,  and  during  the  weeks 
that  followed  it  spread  about  that  Marie  Cummins 
had  turned  down  Jan  Larose,  and  that  Clarry 
0  'Grady  was  now  the  lucky  man.  It  was  one  of  the 
unexplained  tricks  of  fate  that  had  brought  them 
together,  and  had  set  their  discovery  stakes  side  by 
side  on  Pelican  Creek. 

To-day,  in  spite  of  his  smiling  coolness,  Jan's 
heart  rankled  with  a  bitterness  that  seemed  to  be 
concentrated  of  all  the  dregs  that  had  ever  entered 
into  his  life.  It  poisoned  him,  heart  and  soul.  He 


142          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTBY 

was  not  a  coward.  He  was  not  afraid  of  O'Gracly* 
And  yet  he  knew  that  fate  had  already  played  the 
cards  against  him.  He  would  lose.  He  was  almost 
confident  of  that,  even  while  he  nerved  himself  to 
fight.  There  was  the  drop  of  savage  superstition 
in  him,  and  he  told  himself  that  something  would 
happen  to  beat  him  out.  O'Grady  had  gone  into  the 
home  that  was  almost  his  own  and  had  robbed  him 
of  Marie.  In  that  fight  in  the  forest  he  should  have 
killed  him.  That  would  have  been  justice,  as  he 
knew  it.  But  he  had  relented,  half  for  Marie 's  sake, 
and  half  because  he  hated  to  take  a  human  life,  even 
though  it  were  O'Grady's.  But  this  time  there 
would  be  no  relenting.  He  had  come  alone  to  the 
top  of  the  ridge  to  settle  the  last  doubts  with  him 
self.  Whoever  won  out,  there  would  be  a  fight.  It 
would  be  a  magnificent  fight,  like  that  which  his 
grandfather  had  fought  and  won  for  the  honor  of 
a  woman  years  and  years  ago.  He  was  even  glad 
that  0  'Grady  was  trying  to  rob  him  of  what  he  had 
searched  for  and  found.  There  would  be  twice  the 
justice  in  killing  him  now.  And  it  would  be  done 
fairly,  as  his  grandfather  had  done  it. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  piercing  shout  from  the 
direction  of  the  river,  followed  by  a  wild  call  for 
him  through  Jackpine's  moose-horn.  He  answered 
the  Cree  's  signal  with  a  yell  and  tore  down  through 
the  bush.  When  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  ridge  at 
the  edge  of  the  clearing  he  saw  the  men,  women  and 
children  of  Porcupine  City  running  to  the  river.  In 
front  of  the  recorder's  office  stood  Jackpine,  bellow- 


THE    STRENGTH   OF   MEN          143 

ing  through  his  horn.  0  'Grady  and  his  Indian  were 
already  shoving  their  canoe  out  into  the  stream,  and 
even  as  he  looked  there  came  a  break  in  the  line  of 
excited  spectators,  and  through  it  hurried  the  agent 
toward  the  recorder's  cabin. 

Side  by  side,  Jan  and  his  Indian  ran  to  their 
canoe.  Jackpine  was  stripped  to  the  waist,  like 
0  'Grady  and  his  Chippewayan.  Jan  threw  off  only 
his  caribou-skin  coat.  His  dark  woolen  shirt  was 
sleeveless,  and  his  long  slim  arms,  as  hard  as  ribbed 
steel,  were  free.  Half  the  crowd  followed  him.  He 
smiled,  and  waved  his  hand,  the  dark  pupils  of  his 
eyes  shining  big  and  black.  Their  canoe  shot  out 
until  it  was  within  a  dozen  yards  of  the  other,  and 
those  ashore  saw  him  laugh  into  0 'Grady 's  sullen, 
set  face.  He  was  cool.  Between  smiling  lips  his 
white  teeth  gleamed,  and  the  women  stared  with 
brighter  eyes  and  flushed  cheeks,  wondering  how 
Marie  Cummins  could  have  given  up  this  man  for 
the  giant  hulk  and  drink-reddened  face  of  his  rival. 
Those  among  the  men  who  had  wagered  heavily 
against  him  felt  a  misgiving.  There  was  something 
in  Jan's  smile  that  was  more  than  coolness,  and  it 
was  not  bravado.  Even  as  he  smiled  ashore,  and 
spoke  in  low  Cree  to  Jackpine,  he  felt  at  the  belt 
that  he  had  hidden  under  the  caribou-skin  coat. 
There  were  two  sheaths  there,  and  two  knives, 
exactly  alike.  It  was  thus  that  his  grandfather  had 
set  forth  one  summer  day  to  avenge  a  wrong,  nearly 
seventy  years  before. 

The  agent  had  entered  the  cabin,  and  now  he  re- 


144          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

appeared,  wiping  his  sweating  face  with  a  big  red 
handkerchief.  The  recorder  followed.  He  paused 
at  the  edge  of  the  stream  and  made  a  megaphone  of 
his  hands. 

" Gentlemen,"  he  cried  raucously,  "both  claims 
itave  been  thrown  out!" 

A  wild  yell  came  from  0  'Grady.  In  a  single  flasK 
four  paddles  struck  the  water,  and  the  two  canoes 
shot  bow  and  bow  up  the  stream  toward  the  lake 
above  the  bend.  The  crowd  ran  even  with  them  until 
the  low  swamp  at  the  lake 's  edge  stopped  them.  In 
that  distance  neither  had  gained  a  yard  advantage. 
But  there  was  a  curious  change  of  sentiment  among 
those  who  returned  to  Porcupine  City.  That  night 
betting  was  no  longer  two  and  three  to  one  on 
0  'Grady.  It  was  even  money. 

For  the  last  thing  that  the  men  of  Porcupine  City 
had  seen  was  that  cold,  quiet  smile  of  Jan  Larose, 
the  gleam  of  his  teeth,  the  something  in  his  eyes  that 
is  more  to  be  feared  among  men  than  bluster  and 
brute  strength.  They  laid  it  to  confidence.  None 
guessed  that  this  race  held  for  Jan  no  thought  of 
the  gold  at  the  end.  None  guessed  that  he  was  fol 
lowing  out  the  working  of  a  code  as  old  as  the  name 
of  his  race  in  the  north. 

As  the  canoes  entered  the  lake  the  smile  left  Jan's 
face.  His  lips  tightened  until  they  were  almost  a 
straight  line.  His  eyes  grew  darker,  his  breath  came 
more  quickly.  For  a  little  while  0 'Grady 's  canoe 
drew  steadily  ahead  of  them,  and  when  Jackpine's 
strokes  went  deeper  and  more  powerful  Jan  spoke 


THE   STRENGTH   OF   MEN          145 

to  him  In  Cree,  and  guided  the  canoe  so  that  it  cut 
straight  as  an  arrow  in  O'Grady 's  wake.  There 
was  an  advantage  in  that.  It  was  small,  bnt  Jan 
counted  on  the  cumulative  results  of  good  general 
ship. 

His  eyes  never  for  an  instant  left  O'Grady 's  huge, 
naked  back.  Between  his  knees  lay  his  .303  rifle. 
He  had  figured  on  the  fraction  of  time  it  would 
take  him  to  drop  his  paddle,  pick  up  the  gun,  and 
fire.  This  was  his  second  point  in  generalship — 
getting  the  drop  on  O'Grady. 

Once  or  twice  in  the  first  half  hour  O'Grady 
glanced  back  over  his  shoulder,  and  it  was  Jan  who 
now  laughed  tauntingly  at  the  other.  There  was 
something  in  that  laugh  that  sent  a  chill  through 
O'Grady.  It  was  as  hard  as  steel,  a  sort  of  mad 
man's  laugh. 

It  was  seven  miles  to  the  first  portage,  and  there 
were  nine  in  the  eighty-mile  stretch.  O'Grady  and 
his  Chippewayan  were  a  hundred  yards  ahead  when 
the  prow  of  their  canoe  touched  shore.  They  were 
a  hundred  and  fifty  ahead  when  both  canoes  were 
once  more  in  the  water  on  the  other  side  of  the 
portage,  and  O'Grady  sent  back  a  hoarse  shout  of 
triumph.  Jan  hunched  himself  a  little  lower.  He 
spoke  to  Jackpine — and  the  race  began.  Swifter 
and  swifter  the  canoes  cut  through  the  water.  From 
five  miles  an  hour  to  six,  from  six  to  six  and  a  half 
— seven — seven  and  a  quarter,  and  then  the  strain 
told.  A  paddle  snapped  in  O'Grady 's  hands  with 
a,  sound  like  a  pistol  shot  A  dozen  seconds  were 


146          BACK   TO   GOD'S    COUNTRY 

lost  while  lie  snatched  up  a  new  paddle  and  caught 

the   Chippewayan  's   stroke,  and  Jan   swung  close 

into  their  v/ake  again.    At  the  end  of  the  fifteenth 

mile,  where  the  second  portage  began,  0  'Grady  was 

two  hundred  yards  in  the  lead.    He  gained  another 

twenty  on  the  portage  and  with  a  breath  that  was 

coming  now  in   sobbing   swiftness   Jan   put   every 

ounce  of  strength  behind  the  thrust  of  his  paddle. 

Slowly  they  gained.    Foot  by  foot,  yard  by  yard, 

until  for  a  third  time  they  cut  into  0 'Grady 's  wake. 

A  dull  pain  crept  into  Jan's  back.    He  felt  it  slowly 

creeping  into  his  shoulders  and  to  his  arms.     He 

looked  at  Jackpine  and  saw  that  he  was  swinging 

his  body  more  and  more  with  the  motion  of  his 

arms.     And  then  he  saw  that  the  terrific  pace  set 

by  0 'Grady  was  beginning  to  tell  on  the  occupants 

of  the  canoe  ahead.    The  speed  grew  less  and  less, 

until  it  was  no  more  than  seventy  yards.    In  spite 

of  the  pains  that  were  eating  at  his  strength  like 

swimmer's  cramp,  Jan  could  not  restrain  a  low  cry 

of  exultation.    0  'Grady  had  planned  to  beat  him  out 

in  that  first  twenty-mile  spurt.    And  he  had  failed! 

His  heart  leaped  with  new  hope   even  while   his 

strokes  were  growing  weaker. 

Ahead  of  them,  at  the  far  end  of  the  lake,  there 
loomed  up  the  black  spruce  timber  which  marked 
the  beginning  of  the  third  portage,  thirty  miles  from 
Porcupine  City.  Jan  knew  that  he  would  win  there 
— that  he  would  gain  an  eighth  of  a  mile  in  the  half- 
mile  carry.  He  knew  of  a  shorter  cut  than  that  of 
the  regular  trail.  He  had  cleared  it  himself,  for 


THE    STEENGTH   OF   MEN          147 

he  had  spent  a  whole  winter  on  that  portage  trap 
ping  lynx. 

Marie  lived  only  twelve  miles  beyond.  More  than 
once  Marie  had  gone  with  him  over  the  old  trap 
line.  She  had  helped  him  to  plan  the  little  log  cabin 
he  had  built  for  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  big  swamp, 
hidden  away  from  all  but  themselves.  It  was  she 
who  had  put  the  red  paper  curtains  over  the  win 
dows,  and  who,  one  day,  had  written  on  the  corner 
of  one  of  them:  "My  beloved  Jan."  He  forgot 
O'Grady  as  he  thought  of  Marie  and  those  old  days 
of  happiness  and  hope.  It  was  Jackpine  who  re 
called  him  at  last  to  what  was  happening.  In  amaze 
ment  he  saw  that  O'Grady  and  his  Chippewayan 
had  ceased  paddling.  They  passed  a  dozen  yards 
abreast  of  them.  O'Grady 's  great  arms  and  shoul 
ders  were  glistening  with  perspiration.  His  face 
was  purplish.  In  his  eyes  and  on  his  lips  was  the 
old  taunting  sneer.  He  was  panting  like  a  wind- 
broken  animal.  As  Jan  passed  he  uttered  no 
word. 

An  eighth  of  a  mile  ahead  was  the  point  where 
the  regular  portage  began,  but  Jan  swung  around 
this  into  a  shallow  inlet  from  which  his  own  secret 
trail  was  cut.  Not  until  he  was  ashore  did  he  look 
back.  O'Grady  and  his  Indian  were  paddling  in  a 
leisurely  manner  toward  the  head  of  the  point.  For 
a  moment  it  looked  as  though  they  had  given  up  the 
race,  and  Jan's  heart  leaped  exultantly.  O'Grady 
saw  him  and  waved  his  hand.  Then  he  jumped  out 
to  his  knees  in  the  water  and  the  Chippewayan  fol- 


148          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

lowed  him.  He  shouted  to  Jan,  and  pointed  down 
at  the  canoe.  The  next  instant,  with  a  powerful 
shove,  he  sent  the  empty  birchbark  speeding  far  out 
into  the  open  water. 

Jan  caught  his  breath.    He  heard  Jackpine's  cry 

of  amazement  behind  him.     Then  he  saw  the  two 

men  start  on  a  swift  run  over  the  portage  trail,  and 

with  a  fierce,  terrible  cry  he  sprang  toward  his  rifle, 

Jwhich  he  had  leaned  against  a  tree. 

In  that  moment  he  would  have  fired,  but  0  ^Grady 
and  the  Indian  had  disappeared  into  the  timber.  He 
understood — O'Grady  had  tricked  him,  as  he  had 
tricked  him  in  other  ways.  He  had  a  second  canoe 
waiting  for  him  at  the  end  of  the  portage,  and  per 
haps  others  farther  on.  It  was  unfair.  He  could 
still  hear  O'Grady 's  taunting  laughter  as  it  had  rung 
out  in  Porcupine  City,  and  the  mystery  of  it  was 
solved.  His  blood  grew  hot — so  hot  that  his  eyes 
'burned,  and  his  breath  seemed  to  parch  his  lips.  In 
that  short  space  in  which  he  stood  paralyzed  and 
unable  to  act  his  brain  blazed  like  a  volcano.  Who 
was  helping  O'Grady  by  having  a  canoe  ready  for 
him  at  the  other  side  of  the  portage  ?  He  knew  that 
no  man  had  gone  North  from  Porcupine  City  during 
those  tense  days  of  waiting.  The  code  which  all 
understood  had  prohibited  that.  Who,  then,  could 
it  be? — who  but  Marie  herself!  In  some  way 
O'Grady  had  got  word  to  her,  and  it  was  the  Cum 
mins'  canoe  that  was  waiting  for  him! 

With  a  strange  cry  Jan  lifted  the  bow  of  the  canoe 
to  his  shoulder  and  led  Jackpine  in  a  run.  His 


THE    STRENGTH   OF   MEN 

strength  had  returned.  He  did  not  feel  the  whiplike 
sting  of  boughs  that  struck  him  across  the  face.  He 
scarcely  looked  at  the  little  cabin  of  logs  when  they 
passed  it.  Deep  down  in  his  heart  he  called  upon 
the  Virgin  to  curse  those  two — Marie  Cummins  and 
Clarry  O'Grady,  the  man  and  the  girl  who  had 
cheated  him  out  of  love,  out  of  home,  out  of  every 
thing  he  had  possessed,  and  who  were  beating  him 
now  through  perfidy  and  trickery. 

His  face  and  his  hands  were  scratched  and  bleed 
ing  when  they  came  to  the  narrow  waterway,  half 
lake  and  half  river,  which  let  into  the  Blind  Loon. 
Another  minute  and  they  were  racing  again  through 
the  water.  From  the  mouth  of  the  channel  he  saw 
O'Grady  and  the  Chippewayan  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
ahead.  Five  miles  beyond  them  was  the  fourth  port 
age.  It  was  hidden  now  by  a  thick  pall  of  smoke 
rising  slowly  into  the  clear  sky.  Neither  Jan  nor 
the  Indian  had  caught  the  pungent  odors  of  burn 
ing  forests  in  the  air,  and  they  knew  that  it  was  a 
fresh  fire.  Never  in  the  years  that  Jan  could  remem- 
'ber  had  that  portage  been  afire,  and  he  wondered  if 
this  was  another  trick  of  O'Grady's.  The  fire  spread 
rapidly  as  they  advanced.  It  burst  forth  in  a  dozen 
places  along  the  shore  of  the  lake,  sending  up  huge 
volumes  of  black  smoke  riven  by  lurid  tongues  of 
flame.  0  'Grady  and  his  canoe  became  less  and  less 
distinct.  Finally  they  disappeared  entirely  in  the 
lowering  clouds  of  the  conflagration.  Jan's  eyes 
searched  the  water  as  they  approached  shore,  and 
at  last  he  saw  what  he  had  expected  to  find — 


150          BACK   TO    GOD'S    COUNTRY 

O'Grady 's  empty  canoe  drifting  slowly  away  from 
the  beach.  O'Grady  and  the  Chippewayan  were 
gone. 

Over  that  half-mile  portage  Jan  staggered  with 
his  eyes  half  closed  and  his  breath  coming  in  gasps. 
The  smoke  blinded  him,  and  at  times  the  heat  of 
the  fire  scorched  his  face.  In  several  places  it  had 
crossed  the  trail,  and  the  hot  embers  burned  through 
their  moccasins.  Once  Jackpine  uttered  a  cry  of 
pain.  But  Jan's  lips  were  set.  Then,  above  the 
roar  of  the  flames  sweeping  down  upon  the  right  of 
them,  he  caught  the  low  thunder  of  Dead  Man's 
Whirlpool  and  the  cataract  that  had  made  the  port 
age  necessary.  From  the  heated  earth  their  feei 
came  to  a  narrow  ledge  of  rock,  worn  smooth  by  the 
furred  and  moccasined  tread  of  centuries,  with  the 
chasm  on  one  side  of  them  and  a  wall  of  rock  on 
the  other.  Along  the  crest  of  that  wall,  a  hundred 
feet  above  them,  the  fire  swept  in  a  tornado  of  flame 
and  smoke.  A  tree  crashed  behind  them,  a  dozen 
seconds  too  late.  Then  the  trail  widened  and  sloped 
down  into  the  dip  that  ended  the  portage.  For  an 
instant  Jan  paused  to  get  his  bearing,  and  behind 
him  Jackpine  shouted  a  warning. 

Up  out  of  the  smoldering  oven  where  O'Grady 
should  have  found  his  canoe  two  men  were  rushing 
toward  them.  They  Avere  O'Grady  and  the  Chip 
pewayan.  He  caught  the  gleam  of  a  knife  in  the 
Indian's  hand.  In  O'Grady 's  there  was  something 
larger  and  darker — a  club,  and  Jan  dropped  his 
end  of  the  canoe  with  a  glad  cry,  and  drew  one  of 


THE    STRENGTH   OF   MEN          151 

the  knives  from  his  belt.  Jackpine  came  to  his  side, 
with  his  hunting  knife  in  his  hand,  measuring  with 
glittering  eyes  the  oncoming  foe  of  his  race — the 
Chippewayan. 

And  Jan  laughed  softly  to  himself,  and  his  teeth 
gleamed  again,  for  at  last  fate  was  playing  his 
game.  The  fire  had  burned  O'Grady's  canoe,  and 
it  was  to  rob  him  of  his  own  canoe  that  O'Grady 
was  coming  to  fight.  A  canoe !  He  laughed  again, 
while  the  fire  roared  over  his  head  and  the  whirlpool 
thundered  at  his  feet.  O'Grady  would  fight  for  a 
canoe — for  gold — while  he — lie  would  fight  for 
something  else,  for  the  vengeance  of  a  man  whose 
soul  and  honor  had  been  sold.  He  cared  nothing 
for  the  canoe.  He  cared  nothing  for  the  gold.  He 
told  himself,  in  this  one  tense  moment  of  waiting, 
that  he  cared  no  longer  for  Marie.  It  was  the  ful 
fillment  of  the  code. 

He  was  still  smiling  when  O'Grady  was  so  near 
that  he  could  see  the  red  glare  in  his  eyes. 

There  was  no  word,  no  shout,  no  sound  of  fury 
or  defiance  as  the  two  men  stood  for  an  instant 
just  out  of  striking  distance.  Jan  heard  the  coming 
together  of  Jackpine  and  the  Chippewayan.  He 
heard  them  straggling,  but  not  the  flicker  of  an  eye 
lash  did  his  gaze  leave  O'Grady's  face.  Both  men 
understood.  This  time  had  to  come.  Both  had  ex 
pected  it,  even  from  that  day  of  the  fight  in  the  woods 
when  fortune  had  favored  Jan.  The  burned  canoe 
had  only  hastened  the  hour  a  little.  Suddenly  Jan's 
free  hand  reached  behind  him  to  his  belt.  He  drew 


152          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

forth  the  second  knife  and  tossed  it  at  0 'Grady  *s 
feet. 

0  'Grady  made  a  movement  to  pick  it  Tip,  and  then, 
while  Jan  was  partly  off  his  gnard,  came  at  him 
with  a  powerful  swing  of  the  club.  It  was  his  cat 
like  quickness,  the  quickness  almost  of  the  great 
northern  loon  that  evades  a  rifle  ball,  that  had  won 
for  Jan  in  the  forest  fight.  It  saved  him  noAV.  The 
club  cut  through  the  air  over  his  head,  and,  carried 
by  the  momentum  of  his  own  blow,  0  'Grady  lurched 
against  him  with  the  full  force  of  his  two  hundred 
pounds  of  muscle  and  bone.  Jan's  knife  swept  in 
an  upward  flash  and  plunged  to  the  hilt  through 
the  flesh  of  his  enemy's  forearm.  With  a  cry  of 
pain  0  'Grady  dropped  his  club,  and  the  two  crashed 
to  the  stone  floor  of  the  trail.  This  was  the  attack 
that  Jan  had  feared  and  tried  to  foil,  and  with  a 
lightning-like  squirming  movement  he  swung  him 
self  half  free,  and  on  his  back,  with  0 'Grady 's  huge 
hands  linking  at  his  throat,  he  drew  back  his  knife 
arm  for  the  fatal  plung. 

In  this  instant,  so  quick  that  he  could  scarcely 
have  taken  a  breath  in  the  time,  his  eyes  took  in  the 
other  struggle  between  Jackpine  and  the  Chip^je- 
wayan.  The  two  Indians  had  locked  themselves  in 
a  deadly  embrace.  All  thought  of  masters,  of  Efe 
or  death,  were  forgotten  in  the  roused-up  hatred 
that  fired  them  now  in  their  desire  to  kill  They 
had  drawn  close  to  the  edge  of  the  chasm.  Under 
them  the  thundering  roar  of  the  whirlpool  was  no- 
heard,  their  ears  caught  no  sound  of  the  moaning 


THE   STRENGTH   OF   MEN          153 

surge  of  the  flames  far  over  their  heads.  Even  as 
Jan  stared  horror-stricken  in  that  one  moment,  they 
rocked  at  the  edge  of  the  chasm.  Above  the  tumult 
of  the  flood  below  and  the  fire  above  there  rose  a 
wild  yell,  and  the  two  plunged  down  into  the  abyss, 
locked  and  fighting  even  as  they  fell  in  a  twisting, 
formless  shape  to  the  death  below. 

It  happened  in  an  instant — like  the  flash  of  a  quick 
picture  on  a  screen — and  even  as  Jan  caught  the 
last  of  Jackpine  's  terrible  face,  his  hand  drove  eight 
inches  of  steel  toward  O'Grady's  body.  The  blade 
struck  something  hard — something  that  was  neither 
bone  nor  flesh,  and  he  drew  back  again  to  strike.  He 
had  struck  the  steel  buckle  on  O'Grady's  belt.  This 
time — 

A  sudden  hissing  roar  filled  the  air.  Jan  knew 
that  he  did  not  strike — but  he  scarcely  knew  more 
than  that  in  the  first  shock  of  the  fiery  avalanche 
that  had  dropped  upon  them  from  the  rock  wall  of 
the  mountain.  He  was  conscious  of  fighting  des 
perately  to  drag  himself  from  under  a  weight  that 
was  not  O'Grady's — a  weight  that  stifled  the  breath 
m  his  lungs,  that  crackled  in  his  ears,  that  scorched 
his  face  and  his  hands,  and  was  burning  out  his 
eyes.  A  shriek  rang  in  his  ears  unlike  any  other 
cry  of  man  he  had  ever  heard,  and  he  knew  that  it 
wne  O'Grady's.  He  pulled  himself  out,  foot  by 
foot,  until  fresher  air  struck  his  nostrils,  and 
dragged  himself  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  edge  of 
the  ohasm.  He  could  not  rise.  His  limbs  were  para 
lyzed.  His  knife  arm  dragged  at  his  side.  He 


154          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

opened  his  eyes  and  found  that  he  could  see.  Where 
they  had  fought  was  the  smoldering  ruin  of  a  great 
tree,  and  standing  out  of  the  ruin  of  that  tree,  half 
naked,  his  hands  tearing  wildly  at  his  face,  was 
O'Grady.  Jan's  fingers  clutched  at  a  small  rock. 
He  called  out,  but  there  was  no  meaning  to  the  sound 
he  made.  Clarry  O'Grady  threw  out  his  great  arms. 

"Jan — Jan  Larose he  cried.  "My  God, 

don't  strike  now!  I'm  blind — blind 

He  staggered  back,  as  if  expecting  a  blow.  "Don't 
strike!"  he  almost  shrieked.  "Mother  of  Heaven 
— my  eyes  are  burned  out — I'm  blind — blind— 

He  backed  to  the  wall,  his  huge  form  crouched,  his 
hands  reaching  out  as  if  to  ward  off  the  deathblow. 

Jan  tried  to  move,  and  the  effort  brought  a  groan 
of  agony  to  his  lips.  A  second  crash  filled  his  ears 
as  a  second  avalanche  of  fiery  debris  plunged  down 
upon  the  trail  farther  back.  He  stared  straight  up 
through  the  stifling  smoke.  Lurid  tongues  of  flame 
were  leaping  over  the  wall  of  the  mountain  where  the 
edge  of  the  forest  was  enveloped  in  a  sea  of  twisting 
and  seething  fire.  It  was  only  a  matter  of  minutes 
— perhaps  seconds.  Death  had  them  both  in  its 
grip. 

He  looked  again  at  O'Grady,  and  there  was  no 
longer  the  desire  for  the  other's  life  in  his  heart. 
He  could  see  that  the  giant  was  unharmed,  except 
for  his  eyes. 

"Listen,  O'Grady,"  he  cried.  "My  legs  are 
broken,  I  guess,  and  I  can't  move.  It's  sure  death 
to  stay  here  another  minute.  You  can  get  away. 


THE    STRENGTH   OF   MEN          155 

Follow  the  wall — to  your  right.     The  slope  is  still 
free  of  fire,  and — and " 

O'Grady  began  to  move,  guiding  himself  slowly 
along  the  wall.  Then,  suddenly,  he  stopped. 

"Jan  Larose — you  say  you  can't  move?"  he 
shouted. 

"Yes." 

Slowly  O'Grady  turned  and  came  gropingly  to 
ward  the  sound  of  Jan's  voice.  Jan  held  tight  to 
the  rock  that  he  had  gripped  in  his  left  hand.  Was 
it  possible  that  O'Grady  would  kill  him  now,  stricken 
as  he  was  ?  He  tried  to  drag  himself  to  a  new  posi 
tion,  but  his  effort  was  futile. 

"Jan — Jan  Larose!"  called  O'Grady,  stopping  to 
listen. 

Jan  held  his  breath.  Then  the  truth  seemed  to 
dawn  upon  O'Grady.  He  laughed,  differently  than 
he  had  laughed  before,  and  stretched  out  his  arms. 

"My  God,  Jan,"  he  cried,  "you  don't  think  I'm 
clean  beast,  do  you?  The  fight's  over,  man,  an'  I 
guess  God  A 'mighty  brought  this  on  us  to  show  what 
fools  we  was.  Where  are  y ',  Jan  Larose  I  I  'm  goin ' 
t' carry  you  out!" 

"I'm  here!"  called  Jan. 

He  could  see  truth  and  fearlessness  in  O'Grady *s 
vsightless  face,  and  he  guided  him  without  fear. 
Their  hands  met.  Then  O'Grady  lowered  himself 
and  hoisted  Jan  to  his  shoulders  as  easily  as  he 
would  have  lifted  a  boy.  He  straigU&ned  himself 
and  drew  a  deep  breath,  broken  by  a  /ebbing  throb 
of  pain. 


156          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTKY 

"I'm  blind  an'  I  won't  see  any  more,"  lie  said, 
"an'  mebbe  you  won't  ever  walk  any  more.  But  if 
we  ever  git  to  that  gold  I  kin  do  the  work  and  yon 
kin  show  me  how.  Now — p'int  out  the  way,  Jan 
Larose!" 

"With  his  arms  clasped  about  O'Grady's  naked 
shoulders,  Jan's  smarting  eyes  searched  through 
the  thickening  smother  of  fire  and  smoke  for  a  road 
that  the  other's  feet  might  tread.  He  shouted 
"Left"— "right"— "right"— "right"— "left"  into 
this  blind  companion's  ears  until  they  touched  the 
wall.  As  the  heat  smote  them  more  fiercely, 
O'Grady  bowed  his  great  head  upon  his  chest  and 
obeyed  mutely  the  signals  that  rang  in  his  ears.  The 
bottoms  of  his  moccasins  were  burned  from  his  feet, 
live  embers  ate  at  his  flesh,  his  broad  chest  was  a 
fiery  blister,  and  yet  he  strode  on  straight  into  the 
face  of  still  greater  heat  and  greater  torture,  utter 
ing  no  sound  that  could  be  heard  above  the  steady 
roar  of  the  flames.  And  Jan,  limp  and  helpless  on 
his  back,  felt  then  the  throb  and  pulse  of  a  giant 
life  under  him,  the  straining  of  thick  neck,  of  mas 
sive  shoulders  and  the  grip  of  powerful  arms  whose 
strength  told  him  that  at  last  he  had  found  the  com 
rade  and  the  man  in  Clarry  O'Grady.  "Right — 
"left"— "left"— "right"  he  shouted,  and  then  he 
called  for  O'Grady  to  stop  in  a  voice  that  was 
shrill  with  warning. 

"There's  fire  ahead,"  he  yelled.  "We  can't  fol 
low  the  wall  any  longer.  There's  an  open  spa«e 
close  to  the  chasm.  We  can  make  that,  but  there's 


THE    STRENGTH   OF   MEN          157 

only  about  a  yard  to  spare.  Take  short  steps — one 
step  each  time  I  tell  you.  Now — left — left — left — 
left " 

Like  a  soldier  on  drill,  O'Grady  kept  time  with 
his  scorched  feet  until  Jan  turned  him  again  to  face 
the  storm  of  fire,  while  one  of  his  own  broken  legs 
dangled  over  the  abyss  into  which  Jackpine  and  the 
Chippewayan  had  plunged  to  their  death.  Behind 
them,  almost  where  they  had  fought,  there  crashed 
down  a  third  avalanche  from  the  edge  of  the  moun 
tain.  Not  a  shiver  ran  through  O'Grady *s  great 
body.  Steadily  and  unflinchingly — step — step — step 
— he  went  ahead,  while  the  last  threads  of  his  moc- 
oasins  smoked  and  burned.  Jan  could  no  longer 
see  half  a  dozen  yards  in  advance.  A  wall  of  black 
smoke  rose  in  their  faces,  and  he  pulled  O'Grady 's 
ear: 

"We've  got  just  one  chance,  Clarry.  I  can't  see 
any  more.  Keep  straight  ahead — and  run  for  it, 
and  may  the  good  God  help  us  now!" 

And  Clarry  O'Grady,  drawing  one  great  breath 
that  was  half  fire  into  his  lungs,  ran  straight  into 
the  face  of  what  looked  like  death  to  Jan  Larose. 
In  that  one  moment  Jan  closed  his  eyes  and  waited 
for  the  plunge  over  the  cliff.  But  in  place  of  deatK 
a  sweep  of  air  that  seemed  almost  cold  struck  his 
face,  and  he  opened  his  eyes  to  find  the  clear  and 
uncharred  slope  leading  before  them  down  to  the 
edge  of  the  lake.  He  shouted  the  news  into 
O'Grady 's  ear,  and  then  there  arose  from  O'Grady 's 
chest  a  great  sobbing  cry,  partly  of  joy,  partly  of 


158          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTEY 

pain,  and  more  than  all  else  of  that  terrible  grief 
which  came  of  the  knowledge  that  back  in  the  pit  of 
'death  from  which  he  had  escaped  he  had  left  forever 
the  vision  of  life  itself.  He  dropped  Jan  in  the 
edge  of  the  water,  and,  plunging  in  to  his  waist,  he 
threw  handful  after  handful  of  water  into  his  own 
swollen  face,  and  then  stared  upward,  as  though 
this  last  experiment  was  also  his  last  hope. 

"My  God,  I'm  blind— stone  blind!" 

Jan  was  staring  hard  into  O'Grady's  face.  He 
called  him  nearer,  took  the  swollen  and  blackened 
face  between  his  two  hands,  and  his  voice  was  tremb 
ling  with  joy  when  he  spoke. 

"You're  not  blind — not  for  good — O'Grady,"  he 
said.  "I've  seen  men  like  you  before — twice.  You 
— you'll  get  well.  O'Grady — Clarry  O'Grady — 
let's  shake!  I'm  a  brother  to  you  from  this  day  on. 
And  I'm  glad — glad — that  Marie  loves  a  man  like 
you ! ' ' 

0  'Grady  had  gripped  his  hand,  but  he  dropped  it 
now  as  though  it  had  been  one  of  the  live  brands 
that  had  hurtled  down  upon  them  from  the  top  of 
the  mountain. 

"Marie — man — why — she  hates  me!"  he  cried. 
"It's  you — you — Jan  Larose,  that  she  loves!  I 
went  there  with  a  broken  leg,  an'  I  fell  in  love  with 
her.  But  she  wouldn't  so  much  as  let  me  touch  her 
hand,  an '  she  talked  of  you — always — always — until 
I  had  learned  to  hate  you  before  you  came.  I  dunno 
why  she  did  it — that  other  thing — unless  it  was  to 
make  you  jealous.  I  guess  it  was  all  f 'r  fun,  Jan. 


THE    STKENGTH   OF   MEN          159 

She  didn't  know.  The  day  yon  went  away  she  sent 
me  after  yon.  But  I  hated  yon — hated  yon  worse  'n 
she  hated  me.  It's  yon — yon " 

He  clntched  his  hands  at  his  sightless  face  again, 
and  suddenly  Jan  gave  a  wild  shont.  Creeping 
around  the  edge  of  a  smoking  headland,  he  had 
canght  sight  of  a  man  and  a  canoe. 

" There's  a  man  in  a  canoe!"  he  cried.  "He  sees 
ns!  O'Grady " 

He  tried  to  lift  himself,  bnt  fell  back  with  a  groan. 
Then  he  laughed,  and,  in  spite  of  his  agony,  there 
was  a  quivering  happiness  in  his  voice. 

"He's  coming,  O'Grady.  And  it  looks — it  looks 
like  a  canoe  we  both  know.  We'll  go  back  to  her 
cabin  together,  O'Grady.  And  when  we're  on  our 
legs  again — well,  I  never  wanted  the  gold.  That's 
yours — all  of  it." 

A  determined  look  had  settled  in  O'Grady 's  face. 
He  groped  his  way  to  Jan's  side,  and  their  hands 
met  in  a  clasp  that  told  more  than  either  could  have 
expressed  of  the  brotherhood  and  strength  of  men. 

"Yon  can't  throw  me  off  like  that,  Jan  Larose," 
he  said.  "We're  pardners!" 


THE  MATCH 

SERGEANT  BROKAW  was  hatchet-faced,  with  shift 
ing  pale  blue  eyes  that  had  a  glint  of  cruelty  in  them. 
He  was  tall,  and  thin,  and  lithe  as  a  cat.  He  be 
longed  to  the  Eoyal  Northwest  Mounted  Police,  and 
was  one  of  the  best  men  on  the  trail  that  had  ever 
gone  into  the  North.  His  business  was  man  hunting. 
Ten  years  of  seeking  after  human  prey  had  given 
to  him  many  of  the  characteristics  of  a  fox.  For 
six  of  those  ten  years  he  had  represented  law  north 
of  fifty-three.  Now  he  had  come  to  the  end  of  his 
last  hunt,  close  up  to  the  Arctic  Circle.  For  one 
hundred  and  eighty-seven  days  he  had  been  follow 
ing  a  man.  The  hunt  had  begun  in  midsummer,  and 
it  was  now  midwinter.  Billy  Loring,  who  was 
wanted  for  murder,  had  been  a  hard  man  to  find. 
But  he  was  caught  at  last,  and  Brokaw  was  keenly 
exultant.  It  was  his  greatest  achievement.  It 
would  mean  a  great  deal  for  him  down  at  head 
quarters. 

In  the  rough  and  dimly  lighted  cabin  his  man  sat 
opposite  him,  on  a  bench,  his  manacled  hands  crossed 
over  his  knees.  He  was  a  younger  man  than  Brokaw 
— thirty,  or  a  little  better.  His  hair  was  long,  red 
dish,  and  untrimmed.  A  stubble  of  reddish  beard 

160 


THE   MATCH  161 

covered  his  face.  His  eyes,  too,  were  blue — of  the 
deep,  honest  blue  that  one  remembers,  and  most  fre 
quently  trusts.  He  did  not  look  like  a  criminal. 
There  was  something  almost  boyish  in  his  face,  a 
little  hollowed  by  long-  privation.  He  was  the  sort 
of  man  that  other  men  liked.  Even  Brokaw,  who 
had  a  heart  like  flint  in  the  face  of  crime,  had  melted 
a  little. 

"Ugh!"  he  shivered.  "Listen  to  that  beastly 
wind!  It  means  three  days  of  storm."  Outside  a 
gale  was  blowing  straight  down  from  the  Arctic. 
They  could  hear  the  steady  moaning  of  it  in  the 
spruce  tops  over  the  cabin,  and  now  and  then  there 
came  one  of  those  raging  blasts  that  filled  the  night 
with  strange  shrieking  sounds.  Volleys  of  fine, 
hard  snow  beat  against  the  one  window  with  a  rattle 
like  shot.  In  the  cabin  it  was  comfortable.  It  was 
Billy's  cabin.  He  had  built  it  deep  in  a  swamp, 
where  there  were  lynx  and  fisher  cat  to  trap,  and 
where  he  had  thought  that  no  one  could  find  him. 
The  sheet-iron  stove  was  glowing  hot.  An  oil  lamp 
hung  from  the  ceiling.  Billy  was  sitting  so  that  the 
glow  of  this  fell  in  his  face.  It  scintillated  on  the 
rings  of  steel  about  his  wrists.  Brokaw  was  a  cau 
tious  man,  as  well  as  a  clever  one,  and  he  took  no 
chances. 

"I  like  storms — when  you're  inside,  an'  close  to 
a  stove,"  replied  Billy.  "Makes  me  feel  sort  of — 
safe."  He  smiled  a  little  grimly.  Even  at  that  it 
was  not  an  unpleasant  smile. 

Brokaw 's  snow-reddened  eyes  gazed  at  the  other* 


162          BACK   TO   GOD'S    COUNTRY 

"There's  something  in  that,"  he  said.  "This 
storm  will  give  you  at  least  three  days  more  of  life/' 

"Won't  you  drop  that?"  asked  the  prisoner, 
turning  his  face  a  little,  so  that  it  was  shaded  from 
the  light. 

"You've  got  me  now,  an'  I  know  what's  coming 
as  well  as  you  do."  His  voice  was  low  and  quiet, 
with  the  faintest  trace  of  a  broken  note  in  it,  deep 
down  in  his  throat.  "We're  alone,  old  man,  and  a 
long  way  from  anyone.  I  ain't  blaming  you  for 
catching  me.  I  haven't  got  anything  against  you< 
So  let's  drop  this  other  thing — what  I'm  going  down 
to — and  talk  something  pleasant.  I  know  I'm  going 
to  hang.  That's  the  law.  It'll  be  pleasant  enough 
when  it  comes,  don't  you  think?  Let's  talk  about — 
about — home.  Got  any  kids  ? ' ' 

Brokaw  shook  his  head,  and  took  his  pipe  from 
his  mouth. 

"Never  married,"  he  said  shortly. 

"Never  married,"  mused  Billy,  regarding  him 
with  a  curious  softening  of  his  blue  eyes.  "You 
don 't  know  what  you  've  missed,  Brokaw.  Of  course, 
it's  none  of  my  business,  but  you've  got  a  home — 

somewhere "    Brokaw  shook  his  head  again. 

x  "Been  in  the  service  ten  years,"  he  said.  "I've 
'got  a  mother  living  with  my  brother  somewhere  down 
in  York  State.  I've  sort  of  lost  track  of  them. 
Haven't  seen  'em  in  five  years." 

Billy  was  looking  at  him  steadily.  Slowly  he  rose 
to  his  feet,  lifted  his  manacled  hands,  and  turned 
down  the  light. 


THE   MATCH  163 

f 'Hurts  my  eyes,"  he  said,  and  he  laughed  frankly: 
as  he  caught  the  suspicious  glint  in  Brokaw's  eyes, 
He  seated  himself  again,  and  leaned  over  toward 
the  other.  "I  haven't  talked  to  a  white  man  for 
three  months, ' '  he  added,  a  little  hesitatingly.  * '  I  'v6 
been  hiding — close.  I  had  a  dog  for  a  time,  but  he 
died,  an'  I  didn't  dare  go  hunting  for  another.  I 
knew  you  fellows  were  pretty  close  after  me.  But 
I  wanted  to  get  enough  fur  to  take  me  to  SoutK 
America.  Had  it  all  planned,  an'  she  was  going  to 
join  me  there — with  the  kid.  Understand!  If  you'd 
kept  away  another  month " 

There  was  a  husky  break  in  his  voice,  and  he 
coughed  to  clear  it. 

"You  don't  mind  if  I  talk,  do  you — about  her,  an' 
the  kid?  I've  got  to  do  it,  or  bust,  or  go  mad.  I've 
got  to  because — to-day — she  was  twenty-four — at 
ten  o'clock  in  the  morning — an'  it's  our  wedding 
day " 

The  half  gloom  hid  from  Brokaw  what  was  in  the 
other's  face.  And  then  Billy  laughed  almost  joy 
ously.  "Say,  but  she's  been  a  true  little  pardner," 
he  whispered  proudly,  as  there  came  a  lull  in  the 
storm.  "She  was  just  born  for  me,  an'  everything 
seemed  to  happen  on  her  birthday,  an'  that's  why 
I  can't  be  downhearted  even  now.  It's  her  birth 
day,  you  see,  an'  this  morning,  before  you  came,  I 
was  just  that  happy  that  I  set  a  plate  for  her  at 
the  table,  an'  put  her  picture  and  a  curl  of  her  hair 
beside  it — set  the  picture  up  so  it  was  looking  at 
me — an '  we  had  breakfast  together.  Look  here " 


164          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

He  moved  to  the  table,  with  Brokaw  watching  him 
like  a  cat,  and  brought  something  back  with  him, 
wrapped  in  a  soft  piece  of  buckskin.  He  unfolded 
the  buckskin  tenderly,  and  drew  forth  a  long  curl 
that  rippled  a  dull  red  and  gold  in  the  lamp-glow, 
and  then  he  handed  a  photograph  to  Brokaw. 

"That's  her!"  he  whispered. 

Brokaw  turned  so  that  the  light  fell  on  the  picture. 
A  sweet,  girlish  face  smiled  at  him  from  out  of  a 
wealth  of  flowing,  disheveled  curls. 

"She  had  it  taken  that  way  just  for  me,"  ex 
plained  Billy,  with  the  enthusiasm  of  a  boy  in  his 
voice.  "She's  always  wore  her  hair  in  curls — an' 
a  braid — for  me,  when  we're  home.  I  love  it  that 
way.  Guess  I  may  be  silly  but  I'll  tell  you  why. 
that  was  down  in  York  State,  too.  She  lived  in 
a  cottage,  all  grown  over  with  honeysuckle  an'  morn 
ing  glory,  -with  green  hills  and  valleys  all  about  it 
— and  the  old  apple  orchard  just  behind.  That  day 
we  were  in  the  orchard,  all  red  an'  white  with  bloom, 
and  she  dared  me  to  a  race.  I  let  her  beat  me,  and 
when  I  came  up  she  stood  under  one  of  the  trees,  her 
cheeks  like  the  pink  blossoms,  and  her  hair  all 
tumbled  about  her  like  an  armful  of  gold,  shaking 
the  loose  apple  blossoms  down  on  her  head.  I  for 
got  everything  then,  and  I  didn't  stop  until  I  had 
her  in  my  arms,  an' — an'  she's  been  my  little 
pardner  ever  since.  After  the  baby  came  we  moved 
up  into  Canada,  where  I  had  a  good  chance  in  a  new 
mining  town.  An'  then —  A  furious  blast  of 

the  storm  sent  the  overhanging  spruce  tops  smash- 


THE   MATCH  165 

ing  against  the  top  of  the  cabin.  Straight  overhead 
the  wind  shrieked  almost  like  human  voices,  and  the 
one  window  rattled  as  though  it  were  shaken  by 
human  hands.  The  lamp  had  been  burning  lower 
and  lower.  It  began  to  flicker  now,  the  quick  sputter 
of  the  wick  lost  in  the  noise  of  the  gale.  Then  it 
went  out.  Brokaw  leaned  over  and  opened  the  door 
of  the  big  box  stove,  and  the  red  glow  of  the  fire 
took  the  place  of  the  lamplight.  He  leaned  back 
and  relighted  his  pipe,  eyeing  Billy.  The  sudden 
blast,  the  going  out  of  the  light,  the  opening  of  the 
stove  door,  had  all  happened  in  a  minute,  but  the 
interval  was  long  enough  to  bring  a  change  in  Billy's 
voice.  It  was  cold  and  hard  when  he  continued. 
He  leaned  over  toward  Brokaw,  and  the  boyishness 
had  gone  from  his  face. 

"Of  course,  I  can't  expect  you  to  have  any  sym 
pathy  for  this  other  business,  Brokaw,"  he  went 
on.  "Sympathy  isn't  in  your  line,  an'  you  wouldn't 
be  the  big  man  you  are  in  the  service  if  you  had  it. 
But  I'd  like  to  know  what  you  would  have  done.: 
We  were  up  there  six  months,  and  we  'd  both  grown 
to  love  the  big  Avoods,  and  she  was  growing  prettier 
and  happier  every  day — when  Thome,  the  new 
superintendent,  came  up.  One  day  she  told  me  that 
she  didn't  like  Thorne,  but  I  didn't  pay  much  atten 
tion  to  that,  and  laughed  at  her,  and  said  he  was  a 
good  fellow.  After  that  I  could  see  that  something 
was  worrying  her,  and  pretty  soon  I  couldn't  help 
from  seeing  what  it  was,  and  everything  rame  out. 
It  was  Thorne.  He  was  persecuting  her.  She 


166          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

hadn't  told  me,  because  she  knew  it  would  make 
trouble  and  I'd  lose  my  job.  One  afternoon  I  came 
home  earlier  than  usual,  and  found  her  crying.  She 
put  her  arms  round  my  neck,  and  just  cried  it  all 
out,  with  her  face  snuggled  in  my  neck,  and  kissin* 
me " 

Brokaw  could  see  the  cords  in  Billy's  neck.  His 
manacled  hands  were  clenched. 

1  'What  would  you  have  done,  Brokaw?"  he  asked 
Kuskily.  "What  if  you  had  a  wife,  an'  she  told  you 
that  another  man  had  insulted  her,  and  was  forcing 
his  attentions  on  her,  and  she  asked  you  to  give  up 
your  job  and  take  her  away?  Would  you  have  done 
it,  Brokaw?  No,  you  wouldn't.  You'd  have  hunted 
up  the  man.  That's  what  I  did.  He  had  been  drink 
ing — just  enough  to  make  him  devilish,  and  he 
laughed  at  me — I  didn't  mean  to  strike  so  hard. — 
But  it  happened.  I  killed  him.  I  got  away.  She 
and  the  baby  are  down  in  the  little  cottage  again — 
down  in  York  State — an'  I  know  she's  awake  this 
minute — our  wedding  day — thinking  of  me,  an '  pray 
ing  for  me,  and  counting  the  days  between  now  and 
spring.  We  were  going  to  South  America  then." 

Brokaw  rose  to  his  feet,  and  put  fresh  wood  into 
the  stove. 

' '  I  guess  it  must  be  pretty  hard, ' '  he  said,  straight 
ening  himself.  "But  the  law  up  here  doesn't 
take  them  things  into  account — not  very  much.  It 
may  let  you  off  with  manslaugher — ten  or  fifteen 
years.  I  hope  it  does.  Let's  turn  in." 

Billy  stood  up  beside  him.    He  went  with  Brokaw 


THE   MATCH  167 

to  a  bunk  built  against  the  wall,  and  the  sergeant 
drew  a  fine  steel  chain  from  his  pocket.  Billy  lay 
down,  his  hands  crossed  over  his  breast,  and  Bro- 
kaw  deftly  fastened  the  chain  about  his  ankles. 

"And  I  suppose  you  think  this  is  hard,  too," 
he  added.  "But  I  guess  you'd  do  it  if  you  were  me. 
Ten  years  of  this  sort  of  work  learns  you  not  to 
take  chances.  If  you  want  anything  in  the  night 
just  whistle. "  It  had  been  a  hard  day  with  Brokaw, 
and  he  slept  soundly.  For  an  hour  Billy  lay  awake, 
thinking  of  home,  and  listening  to  the  wail  of  the 
storm.  Then  he,  too,  fell  into  sleep — a  restless,  un 
easy  slumber  filled  with  troubled  visions.  For  a 
time  there  had  come  a  lull  in  the  storm,  but  now  it 
broke  over  the  cabin  with  increased  fury.  A  hand 
seemed  slapping  at  the  window,  threatening  to  break 
it.  The  spruce  boughs  moaned  and  twisted  over 
head,  and  a  volley  of  wind  and  snow  shot  suddenly 
down  the  chimney,  forcing  open  the  stove  door,  so 
that  a  shaft  of  ruddy  light  cut  like  a  red  knife 
through  the  dense  gloom  of  the  cabin.  In  varying 
ways  the  sounds  played  a  part  in  Billy's  dreams. 
In  all  those  dreams,  and  segments  of  dreams,  the 
girl — his  wife — was  present.  Once  they  had  gone 
for  wild  flowers  and  had  been  caught  in  a  thunder 
storm,  and  had  run  to  an  old  and  disused  barn  in 
the  middle  of  a  field  for  shelter.  He  was  back  in  that 
barn  again,  with  her — and  he  could  feel  her  tremb 
ling  against  him,  and  he  was  stroking  her  hair,  as 
the  thunder  crashed  over  them  and  the  lightning 
filled  her  eyes  with  fear.  After  that  there  came  to 


168          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

him  a  vision  of  the  early  autumn  nights  when  they 
had  gone  corn  roasting,  with  other  young  people. 
He  had  always  been  afflicted  with  a  slight  nasal 
trouble,  and  smoke  irritated  him.  It  set  him  sneez 
ing,  and  kept  him  dodging  about  the  fire,  and  she 
had  always  laughed  when  the  smoke  persisted  in 
following  him  about,  like  a  young  scamp  of  a  boy 
bent  on  tormenting  him.  The  smoke  was  unusually 
persistent  to-night.  He  tossed  in  his  bunk,  and 
buried  his  face  in  the  blanket  that  answered  for  a 
pillow.  The  smoke  reached  him  even  there,  and  he 
sneezed  chokingly.  In  that  instant  the  girl's  face 
disappeared.  He  sneezed  again — and  awoke. 

A  startled  gasp  broke  from  his  lips,  and  the  hand 
cuffs  about  his  wrists  clanked  as  he  raised  his  hands 
to  his  face.  In  that  moment  his  dazed  senses  ad 
justed  themselves.  The  cabin  was  full  of  smoke.  It 
partly  blinded  him,  but  through  it  he  could  see 
tongues  of  fire  shooting  toward  the  ceiling.  He  could 
hear  the  crackling  of  burning  pitch,  and  he  yelled 
wildly  to  Brokaw.  In  an  instant  the  sergeant  was 
on  his  feet.  He  rushed  to  the  table,  where  he  had 
placed  a  pail  of  water  the  evening  before,  and  Billy 
heard  the  hissing  of  the  water  as  it  struck  the  flam 
ing  wall. 

''Never  mind  that,"  he  shouted.  "The  shack's 
built  of  pitch  cedar.  We've  got  to  get  out!"  Bro- 
kaw7  groped  his  way  to  him  through  the  smoke  and 
began  fumbling  at  the  chain  about  his  ankles. 

"I  can't — find — the  key he  gasped  chok 
ingly.  ' '  Here  grab  hold  of  me ! " 


THE   MATCH  169 

He  caught  Billy  under  the  arms  and  dragged  him 
to  the  door.  As  he  opened  it  the  wind  came  in  with 
a  rush  and  behind  them  the  whole  cabin  burst  into 
a  furnace  of  flame.  Twenty  yards  from  the  cabin  he 
dropped  Billy  in  the  snow,  and  ran  back.  In  that 
seething  room  of  smoke  and  fire  was  everything  on 
which  their  lives  depended,  food,  blankets,  even  their 
coats  and  caps  and  snowshoes.  But  he  could  go  no 
farther  than  the  door.  He  returned  to  Billy,  found 
the  key  in  his  pocket,  and  freed  him  from  the  chain 
about  his  ankles.  Billy  stood  up.  As  he  looked  at 
Brokaw  the  glass  in  the  window  broke  and  a  sea 
of  flame  sprouted  through.  It  lighted  up  their  faces. 
The  sergeant's  jaw  was  set  hard.  His  leathery  face 
was  ©uriously  white.  He  could  not  keep  from  shiv 
ering.  There  was  a  strange  smile  on  Billy's  face, 
and  a  strange  look  in  his  eyes.  Neither  of  the  two 
men  had  undressed  for  sleep,  but  their  coats,  and 
caps,  and  heavy  mittens  were  in  the  flames. 

Billy  rattled  his  handcuffs.  Brokaw  looked  him 
squarely  in  the  eyes. 

"You  ought  to  know  this  country, "  he  said. 
"What  11  we  dot" 

"The  nearest  post  is  sixty  miles  from  here,"  said 
Billy. 

"I  know  that,"  replied  Brokaw.  "And  I  know 
that  Thoreau's  cabin  is  only  twenty  miles  from  here. 
There  must  be  some  trapper  or  Indian  shack  nearer 
than  that.  Is  there?"  In  the  red  glare  of  the  fire 
Billy  smiled.  His  teeth  gleamed  at  Brokaw.  It  was 
in  a  lull  of  the  wind,  and  he  went  close  to  Brokaw, 


170          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTED 

and  spoke  quietly,  his  eyes  shining  more  and  more 
with  that  strange  light  that  had  come  into  them. 

' '  This  is  going  to  be  a  big  sight  easier  than  hang 
ing,  or  going  to  jail  for  half  my  life,  Brokaw — an'  yon 
don't  think  I'm  going  to  be  fool  enough  to  miss  the 
chance,  do  you?  It  ain't  hard  to  die  of  cold.  I've 
almost  been  there  once  or  twice.  I  told  you  last 
night  why  I  couldn't  give  up  hope — that  something 
good  for  me  always  came  on  her  birthday,  or  near 
to  it.  An 'it's  come.  It 's  forty  below,  an '  we  won 't 
live  the  day  out.  We  ain't  got  a  mouthful  of  grub. 
We  ain't  got  clothes  enough  on  to  keep  us  from 
freezing  inside  the  shanty,  unless  we  had  a  fire. 
Last  night  I  saw  you  fill  your  match  bottle  and  put 
it  in  your  coat  pocket.  Why,  man,  we  ain't  even 
got  a  match!" 

In  his  voice  there  was  a  thrill  of  triumph.  Bro 
kaw 's  hands  were  clenched,  as  if  some  one  had 
threatened  to  strike  him. 

"You  mean —      '  he  gasped. 

"Just  this,"  interrupted  Billy,  and  his  voice  was 
harder  than  Brokaw 's  now.  "The  God  you  used 
to  pray  to  when  you  was  a  kid  has  given  me  a  choice, 
Brokaw,  an'  I'm  going  to  take  it.  If  we  stay  by 
this  fire,  an'  keep  it  up,  we  won't  die  of  cold,  but 
of  starvation.  We'll  be  dead  before  we  get  half  way 
to  Thoreau's.  There's  an  Indian  shack  that  we 
could  make,  but  you'll  never  find  it — not  unless  you 
unlock  these  irons  and  give  me  that  revolver  at  your 
belt.  Then  I'll  take  you  over  there  as  my  prisoner. 
That'll  give  me  another  chance  for  South  Amer- 


THE   MATCH  171 

ica — an'  the  kid  an*  home."  Brokaw  was  buttoning 
the  thick  collar  of  his  shirt  close  up  about  his  neck. 
On  his  face,  too,  there  came  for  a  moment  a  grim 
and  determined  smile. 

"Come  on,"  he  said,  "we'll  make  Thoreau's  or 
die." 

"Sure,"  said  Billy,  stepping  quickly  to  his  side. 
"I  suppose  I  might  lie  down  in  the  snow,  an'  refuse 
to  budge.  I'd  win  my  game  then,  wouldn't  II  But 
we'll  play  it — on  the  square.  It's  Thoreau's,  or  die. 
And  it's  up  to  you  to  find  Thoreau's." 

He  looked  back  over  his  shoulder  at  the  burning 
cabin  as  they  entered  the  edge  of  the  forest,  and  in 
the  gray  darkness  that  was  preceding  dawn  he 
smiled  to  himself.  Two  miles  to  the  south,  in  a  thick 
swamp,  was  Indian  Joe's  cabin.  They  could  have 
made  it  easily.  On  their  way  to  Thoreau's  they 
would  pass  within  a  mile  of  it.  But  Brokaw  would 
never  know.  And  they  would  never  reach  Thoreau  's. 
Billy  knew  that.  He  looked  at  the  man  hunter  as  he 
broke  trail  ahead  of  him — at  the  pugnacious  hunch 
of  his  shoulders,  his  long  stride,  the  determined 
clench  of  his  hands,  and  wondered  what  the  soul  and 
the  heart  of  a  man  like  this  must  be,  who  in  such  an 
hour  would  not  trade  life  for  life.  For  almost  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  Brokaw  did  not  utter  a  word. 
The  storm  had  broke.  Above  the  spruce  tops  the 
sky  began  to  clear.  Day  came  slowly.  And  it  was 
growing  steadily  colder.  The  swing  of  Brokaw 's 
arms  and  shoulders  kept  the  blood  in  them  circu 
lating,  while  Billy's  manacled  wrists  held  a  part 


172          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

of  his  body  almost  rigid.  He  knew  that  his  hands 
were  already  frozen.  His  arms  were  numb,  and 
when  at  last  Brokaw  paused  for  a  moment  on  the 
edge  of  a  frozen  stream  Billy  thrust  out  his  hands, 
and  clanked  the  steel  rings. 

"It  must  be  getting  colder,"  he  said.  "Look  at 
that." 

The  cold  steel  had  seared  his  wrists  like  hot  iron, 
and  had  pulled  off  patches  of  skin  and  flesh.  Bro 
kaw  looked,  and  hunched  his  shoulders.  His  lips 
were  blue.  His  cheeks,  ears,  and  nose  were  frost 
bitten.  There  was  a  curious  thickness  in  his  voice 
when  he  spoke. 

"Thoreau  lives  on  this  creek,"  he  said.  "How 
much  farther  is  it  ?  " 

' l  Fifteen  or  sixteen  miles,  * '  replied  Billy.  ' ;  You  '11 
last  just  about  five,  Brokaw.  I  won't  last  that  long 
tmless  you  take  these  things  off  and  give  me  the 
use  of  my  arms." 

"To  knock  out  my  brains  when  I  ain't  looking," 
growled  Brokaw.  "I  guess — before  long — you'll  be 
willing  to  tell  where  the  Indian's  shack  is." 

He  kicked  his  way  through  a  drift  of  snow  to  the 
smoother  surface  of  the  stream.  There  was  a  breath 
of  wind  in  their  faces,  and  Billy  bowed  his  head  to 
it.  In  the  hours  of  his  greatest  loneliness  and  de 
spair  Billy  had  kept  up  his  fighting  spirit  by  think 
ing  of  pleasant  things,  and  now,  as  he  followed  in 
Brokaw 's  trail,  he  began  to  think  of  home.  It  was 
not  hard  for  him  to  bring  up  visions  of  the  girl 
wife  who  would  probably  never  know  how  he  had 


THE   MATCH  173 

died.  He  forgot  Brokaw.  He  followed  in  the  trail 
mechanically,  failing  to  notice  that  his  captor 's  pace 
was  growing  steadily  slower,  and  that  his  own  feet 
were  dragging  more  and  more  like  leaden  weights. 
He  was  back  among  the  old  hills  again,  and  the  sun 
was  shining,  and  he  heard  laughter  and  song.  He 
saw  Jeanne  standing  at  the  gate  in  front  of  the  little 
white  cottage,  smiling  at  him,  and  waving  Baby 
Jeanne's  tiny  hand  at  him  as  he  looked  back  over 
his  shoulder  from  down  the  dusty  road.  His  mind 
did  not  often  travel  as  far  as  the  mining  camp,  and 
he  had  completely  forgotten  it  now.  He  no  longer 
felt  the  sting  and  pain  of  the  intense  cold.  It  was 
Brokaw  who  brought  him  back  into  the  reality  of 
things.  The  sergeant  stumbled  and  fell  in  a  drift, 
and  Billy  fell  over  him.  For  a  moment  the  two  men 
sat  half  buried  in  the  snow,  looking  at  each  other 
without  speaking.  Brokaw  moved  first.  He  rose 
to  his  feet  with  an  effort.  Billy  made  an  attempt 
to  follow  him.  After  three  efforts  he  gave  it  up, 
and  blinked  up  into  Brokaw 's  face  with  a  queer 
laugh.  The  laugh  was  almost  soundless.  There 
had  come  a  change  in  Brokaw 's  face.  Its  determina 
tion  and  confidence  were  gone.  At  last  the  iron 
mask  of  the  Law  was  broken,  and  there  shone 
through  it  something  of  the  emotions  and  the 
brotherhood  of  man.  He  was  fumbling  in  one  of 
his  pockets,  and  drew  out  the  key  to  the  handcuffs. 
It  was  a  small  key,  and  he  held  it  between  his  stif 
fened  fingers  with  difficulty.  He  knelt  down  beside 
Billy.  The  keyhole  was  filled  with  snow.  It  took 


174          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY, 

a  long  time — ten  minutes — before  the  key  was  fitted 
in  and  the  lock  clicked.  He  helped  to  tear  off  the 
cuffs.  Billy  felt  no  sensation  as  bits  of  skin  and 
flesh  came  with  them.  Brokaw  gave  him  a  hand, 
and  assisted  him  to  rise.  For  the  first  time  he  spoke. 

1 ' Guess  you've  got  me  beat,  Billy, "  he  said. 
"Where's  the  Indian's?" 

He  drew  his  revolver  from  its  holster  and  tossed 
it  in  the  snowdrift.  The  shadow  of  a  smile  passed 
grimly  over  his  face.  Billy  looked  about  him.  They 
had  stopped  where  the  frozen  path  of  a  smaller 
stream  joined  the  creek.  He  raised  one  of  his  stif 
fened  arms  and  pointed  to  it. 

"Follow  that  creek — four  miles — and  you'll  eome 
to  Indian  Joe's  shack,"  he  said. 

"And  a  mile  is  just  about  our  limit." 

"Just  about — your's,"  replied  Billy.  "I  can't 
make  another  half.  If  we  had  a  fire " 

"// "  wheezed  Brokaw. 

"If  we  had  a  fire,"  continued  Billy.  "We  could 
warm  ourselves,  an*  make  the  Indian's  shack  easy, 
couldn't  we?" 

Brokaw  did  not  answer.  He  had  turned  toward 
the  creek  when  one  of  Billy's  pulseless  hands  fell 
heavily  on  his  arm. 

"Look  here,  Brokaw/' 

Brokaw  turned.  They  looked  into  each  other's 
eyes. 

"I  guess  mebby  you're  a  man,  Brokaw,"  said 
Billy  quietly.  "You've  done  what  you  thought  was 
your  duty.  YouVe  kept  your  word  to  th'  law,  an* 


THE   MATCH  175 

I  believe  you'll  keep  your  word  with  me.  If  I  say 
the  word  that'll  save  us  now  will  you  go  back  to 
headquarters  an'  report  me  dead?"  For  a  full  half 
minute  their  eyes  did  not  waver. 

Then  Brokaw  said: 

"No." 

Billy  dropped  his  hand.  It  was  Brokaw 's  hand 
that  fell  on  his  arm  now. 

"I  can't  do  that,"  he  said.  "In  ten  years  I  ain't 
run  out  the  white  flag  once.  It's  something  that 
ain't  known  in  the  service.  There  ain't  a  coward 
in  it,  or  a  man  who's  afraid  to  die.  But  I'll  play 
you  square.  I'll  wait  until  we're  both  on  our  feet, 
again,  and  then  111  give  you  twenty-four  hours  the 
start  of  me." 

Billy  was  smiling  now.  His  hand  reached  out. 
Brokaw 's  met  it,  and  the  two  joined  in  a  grip  that 
their  numb  fingers  scarcely  felt. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Billy  softly,  "there's  been 
somethin'  runnin'  in  my  head  ever  since  we  left  the 
'burning  cabin.  It's  something  my  mother  taught 
me:  'Do  unto  others  as  you'd  have  others  do  unto 

you.'  I'm  a  d fool,  ain't  I?  But  I'm  goin'  to 

try  the  experiment,  Brokaw,  an'  see  what  comes  of 
it.  I  could  drop  in  a  snowdrift  an*  let  you  go  on — 
to  die.  Then  I  could  save  myself.  But  I'm  going 
to  take  your  word — an'  do  the  other  thing.  I've  got 
a  match." 

"A  match!" 

"Just  one.  I  remember  dropping  it  in  my  pants 
pocket  yesterday  when  I  was  out  on  the  trail.  It's 


176          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

in  this  pocket.  Your  hand  is  in  better  shape  than 
mine.  Get  it."  Life  had  leaped  into  Brokaw's  face. 
He  thrust  his  hand  into  Billy's  pocket,  staring  at 
him  as  he  fumbled,  as  if  fearing  that  he  had  lied. 
"When  he  drew  his  hand  out  the  match  was  between 
his  fingers. 

"Ah!"  he  whispered  excitedly. 

"Don't  get  nervous,"  warned  Billy.  "It's  the 
only  one." 

Brokaw's  eyes  were  searching  the  low  timber  along 
the  shore. 

<  <  There 's  a  birch  tree, ' '  he  cried.  ' '  Hold  it — while 
I  gather  a  pile  of  bark!" 

He  gave  the  match  to  Billy,  and  staggered  through 
the  snow  to  the  bank.  Strip  after  strip  of  the  loose 
bark  he  tore  from  the  tree.  Then  he  gathered  it  in 
a  heap  in  the  shelter  of  a  low-hanging  spruce,  and 
added  dry  sticks,  and  still  more  bark,  to  it.  When 
it  was  ready  he  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  looked  at  Billy. 

"If  we  had  a  stone,  an'  a  piece  of  paper—  "  he 
began. 

Billy  thrust  a  hand  that  felt  like  lifeless  lead  in 
side  his  shirt,  and  fumbled  in  a  pocket  he  had  made 
there.  Brokaw  watched  him  with  red,  eager  eyes. 
The  hand  reappeared,  and  in  it  was  the  buckskin 
wrapped  photograph  he  had  seen  the  night  before, 
Billy  took  off  the  buckskin.  .AJbout  the  picture  there 
was  a  bit  of  tissue  paper.  He  gave  this  and  the  match 
to  Brokaw. 

"There's  a  little  gun-file  in  the  pocket  the  match 


THE   MATCH  177 

came  from,"  he  said.  "I  had  it  mending  a  trap- 
chain.  Yon  can  scratch  the  match  on  that." 

He  turned  so  that  Brokaw  conld  reach  into  the 
pocket,  and  the  man  hunter  thrnst  in  his  hand.  When 
he  brought  it  forth  he  held  the  file.  There  was  a 
smile  on  Billy's  frostbitten  face  as  he  held  the  pic 
ture  for  a  moment  under  Brokaw  ys  eyes.  Billy's 
own  hands  had  ruffled  up  the  girl's  shining  curls  an 
instant  before  the  picture  was  taken,  and  she  was 
laughing  at  him  when  the  camera  clicked. 

"It's  all  up  to  her,  Brokaw,"  Billy  said  gently. 
"I  told  you  that  last  night.  It  was  she  who  woke 
me  up  before  the  fire  got  us.  If  you  ever  prayed 
• — pray  a  little  now.  For  she's  going  to  strike  that 
match!" 

He  still  looked  at  the  picture  as  Brokaw  knelt 
beside  the  pile  he  had  made.  He  heard  the  scratch 
of  the  match  on  the  file,  but  his  eyes  did  not  turn. 
The  living,  breathing  face  of  the  most  beautiful 
thing  in  the  world  was  speaking  to  him  from  out 
of  that  picture.  His  mind  was  dazed.  He  swayed 
a  little.  He  heard  a  voice,  low  and  sweet,  and  so 
distant  that  it  came  to  him  like  the  faintest  whisper. 
1  'I  am  coming — I  am  coming,  Billy — coming — com 
ing — coming—  A  joyous  cry  surged  up  from  his 
soul,  but  it  died  on  his  lips  in  a  strange  gasp.  A 
louder  cry  brought  him  back  to  himself  for  a 
moment.  It  was  from  Brokaw.  The  sergeant's  face 
was  terrible  to  behold.  He  rose  to  his  feet,  swaying, 
his  hands  clutched  at  his  breast.  His  voice  was 
thick — hopeless. 


178          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

"The  match — went — out "  He  staggered  np 

to  Billy,  his  eyes  like  a  madman's.  Billy  swayed 
dizzily.  He  laughed,  even  as  he  crumpled  down  in 
the  snow.  As  if  in  a  dream  he  saw  Brokaw  stagger 
off  on  the  frozen  trail.  He  saw  him  disappear  in 
his  hopeless  effort  to  reach  the  Indian's  shack.  And 
then  a  strange  darkness  closed  him  in,  and  in  that 
darkness  he  heard  still  the  sweet  voice  of  his  wife. 
It  spoke  his  name  again  and  again,  and  it  urged  him 
to  wake  up — wake  up — wake  up!  It  seemed  a 
long  time  before  he  could  respond  to  it.  But  at  last 
he  opened  his  eyes.  He  dragged  himself  to  his 
knees,  and  looked  first  to  find  Brokaw.  But  the  man 
hunter  had  gone — forever.  The  picture  was  still 
in  his  hand.  Less  distinctly  than  before  he  saw  the 
girl  smiling  at  him.  And  then — at  his  back — he 
heard  a  strange  and  new  sound.  With  an  effort  he 
turned  to  discover  what  it  was. 

The  match  had  hidden  an  unseen  spark  from  Bro 
kaw 's  eyes.  From  out  of  the  pile  of  fuel  was  rising 
a  pillar  of  smoke  and  flame± 


THE  HONOR  OF  HER  PEOPLE 

"!T  ees  not  so  much — WHat  yon  call  heem? — • 
leegend,  thees  honor  of  the  Beeg  Snows  V9  said  Jan 
softly. 

He  had  risen  to  his  feet  and  gazed  placidly  over 
the  crackling  box-stove  into  the  eyes  of  the  red-faced 
Englishman. 

"Leegend  is  lie!    Thees  is  truth!" 

There  was  no  lack  of  luster  in  the  black  eyes  that 
roved  inquiringly  from  the  Englishman's  bantering 
grin  to  the  others  in  the  room.  Mukee,  the  half 
Cree,  was  sitting  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees  gazing 
with  stoic  countenance  at  this  new  curiosity  who 
had  wandered  four  hundred  miles  northward  from 
civilization.  Williams,  the  Hudson's  Bay  man  who 
claimed  to  be  all  white,  was  staring  hard  at  the  red 
side  of  the  stove,  and  the  factor's  son  looked 
silently  at  Jan.  He  and  the  half-breed  noted  the 
warm  glow  in  the  eyes  that  rested  casually  upon  the 
Englishman. 

"It  ees  truth — thees  honor  of  the  Beeg  Snows!" 
said  Jan  again,  and  his  moceasined  feet  fell  in  heavy, 
thumping  tread  to  the  door. 

That  was  the  first  time  he  had  spoken  that  even- 

179 


180          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

ing,  and  not  even  the  half  Cree,  or  Williams,  or  the 
factor's  son  guessed  how  the  blood  was  racing 
through  his  veins.  Outside  he  stood  with  the  pale, 
cold  glow  of  the  Aurora  Borealis  shining  upon  him, 
and  the  limitless  wilderness,  heavy  in  its  burden  of 
<*now,  reaching  out  into  the  ghost-gray  fabric  of 
the  night.  The  Englishman's  laugh  followed  him, 
'boisterous  and  grossly  thick,  and  Jan  moved  on, 
wondering  how  much  longer  the  half  Cree  and  Wil 
liams  and  the  factor's  son  would  listen  to  the  things 
that  this  man  was  saying  of  the  most  beautiful  thing 
that  had  ever  come  into  their  lives. 

"It  ees  truth,  I  swear,  by  dam' — thees  honor  of 
what  he  calls  the  'Beeg  Snows!'  '  persisted  Jan  to 
himself,  and  he  set  his  back  to  the  factor's  office  and 
trudged  through  the  snow. 

When  he  came  to  the  black  ledge  of  the  spruce 
and  balsam  forest  he  stopped  and  looked  back.  It 
was  an  hour  past  bedtime  at  the  post.  The  Com 
pany's  store  loomed  up  silent  and  lightless.  The  few 
log  cabins  betrayed  no  signs  of  life.  Only  in  the 
factor's  office,  which  was  the  Company's  haven  for 
the  men  of  the  wilderness,  was  there  a  waste  of 
kerosene,  and  that  was  because  of  the  Englishman 
whom  Jan  was  beginning  to  hate.  He  stared  back 
at  the  one  glowing  window  with  a  queer  thicken 
ing  in  his  throat  and  a  clenching  of  the  hands  in 
the  pockets  of  his  caribou-skin  coat.  Then  he  looked 
long  and  wistfully  at  a  little  cabin  which  stood  apart 
from  the  rest,  and  to  himself  he  whispered  again 
what  he  had  said  to  the  Englishman.  Until  to-night 


THE  HONOR  OF  HER  PEOPLE   181 

— or,  perhaps,  until  two  weeks  ago — Jan  had  been 
satisfied  with  his  world.  It  was  a  big,  passionless 
world,  mostly  of  snow  and  ice  and  endless  privation, 
but  he  loved  it,  and  there  was  only  a  fast-fading 
memory  of  another  world  in  his  brain.  It  was  a 
world  of  big,  honest  hearts  kept  warm  within  cari 
bou  skins,  of  moccasined  men  whom  endless  soli 
tude  had  taught  to  say  little  and  do  much — a  world 
of  "Big  Snows,"  as  the  Englishman  had  said,  in 
which  Jan  and  all  his  people  had  come  very  close 
to  the  things  which  God  created.  Without  the  steely 
gray  flash  of  those  mystery-lights  over  the  Arctic 
pole  Jan  would  have  been  homesick ;  his  sould  would 
have  withered  and  died  in  anything  but  this  won 
drous  land  which  he  knew,  with  its  billion  dazzling 
stars  by  night  and  its  eye-blinding  brilliancy  by  day. 
For  Jan,  in  a  way,  was  fortunate.  He  had  in  him  an 
infinitesimal  measure  of  the  Cree,  which  made  him 
understand  what  the  winds  sometimes  whispered  in 
the  pine-tops ;  and  a  part  of  him  was  French,  which 
added  jet  to  his  eyes  and  a  twist  to  his  tongue  and 
made  him  susceptible  to  the  beautiful,  and  the  rest 
was  "just  white"-— the  part  of  him  that  could  be 
stirred  into  such  thoughts  and  visions  as  he  was 
now  thinking  and  dreaming  of  the  Englishman. 

The  "honor  of  the  Beeg  Snows"  was  a  part  of* 
Jan's  soul;  it  was  his  religion,  and  the  religion  of 
those  few  others  who  lived  with  him  four  hundred 
miles  from  a  settlement,  in  a  place  where  God's 
name  could  not  be  spelled  or  written.  It  meant 
what  civilization  could  not  understand,  and  the  Eng- 


182          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

lishman  could  not  understand — freezing  and  slow 
starvation  rather  than  theft,  and  the  living  of  the 
tenth  commandment  above  all  other  things.  It  came 
naturally  and  easily,  this  "honor  of  the  Beeg 
Snows."  It  was  an  unwritten  law  which  no  man 
cared  or  dared  to  break,  and  to  Jan,  with  his  Cree 
and  his  French  and  his  "just  white"  blood,  it  was 
in  full  measure  just  what  the  good  God  meant  it 
to  be. 

He  moved  now  toward  the  little  isolated  cabin, 
half  hidden  in  its  drift  of  snow,  keeping  well  in 
the  deep  shadows  of  the  spruce  and  balsam,  and 
when  he  stopped  again  he  saw  faintly  a  gleam  of 
light  falling  in  a  wan  streak  through  a  big  hole  in 
a  curtained  window.  Each  night,  always  when  the 
twenty-odd  souls  of  the  post  were  deep  in  slumber, 
Jan's  heart  would  come  near  to  bursting  with  joy  at 
the  sight  of  this  grow  from  the  snow-smothered 
cabin,  for  it  told  him  that  the  most  beautiful  thing 
in  the  world  was  safe  and  well.  He  heard,  suddenly, 
the  slamming  of  a  door,  and  the  young  Englishman's 
whistle  sounded  shrill  and  untuneful  as  he  went  to 
his  room  in  the  factor's  house.  For  a  moment  Jan 
straightened  himself  rigidly,  and  there  was  a  strange 
tenseness  in  the  thin,  dark  face  that  he  turned 
straight  up  to  where  the  Northern  Lights  were  shiv 
ering  in  their  midnight  play.  When  he  looked  again 
at  the  light  in  the  little  cabin  the  passion-blood  was 
rushing  through  his  veins,  and  he  fingered  the  hilt 
of  the  hunting  knife  in  his  belt. 

The  most  beautiful  thing  in  the  world  had  come 


THE  HONOR  OF  HER  PEOPLE   183 

into  Jan's  life,  and  the  other  lives  at  the  post,  just 
two  summers  before.  Cummins,  red-headed,  lithe 
as  a  cat,  big-souled  as  the  eternal  mountain  of  the 
Crees  and  the  best  of  the  Company's  hunters,  had 
brought  her  up  as  his  bride.  Seventeen  rough 
hearts  had  welcomed  them.  They  had  assembled 
about  that  little  cabin  in  which  the  light  was  shining, 
speechless  in  their  adoration  of  this  woman  who 
had  come  among  them,  their  caps  in  their  hands, 
faces  shining,  eyes  shifting  before  the  glorious  ones 
that  looked  at  them  and  smiled  at  them  as  the  woman 
shook  their  hands,  one  by  one.  Perhaps  she  was  not 
beautiful,  as  most  people  judge.  But  she  was  beau 
tiful  here — four  hundred  miles  beyond  civilization, 
Mukee,  the  half-Cree,  had  never  seen  a  white  woman, 
for  even  the  factor's  wife  was  part  Chippewayan, 
and  no  one  of  the  others  went  down  to  the  edge  of 
the  southern  wilderness  more  than  once  each  twelve 
month  or  so.  Her  hair  was  brown  and  soft,  and  it 
shone  with  a  sunny  glory  that  reached  away  back 
into  their  conception  of  things  dreamed  of  but  never 
seen,  her  eyes  were  as  blue  as  the  early  snowflowers 
that  came  after  the  spring  floods,  and  her  voice  was 
the  sweetest  sound  that  had  ever  fallen  upon  their 
ears.  So  these  men  thought  when  Cummins  first 
brought  home  his  wife,  and  the  masterpiece  which 
each  had  painted  in  his  soul  and  brain  was  never 
changed.  Each  week  and  month  added  to  the  deep- 
toned  value  of  that  picture,  as  the  passing  of  a  cen 
tury  might  add  to  a  Raphael  or  a  Van  Dyke.  The 
woman  became  more  human,  and  less  an  angel,  of 


184          BACK   TO   GOD'S    COUNTRY 

course,  but  that  only  made  her  more  real,  and  al 
lowed  them  to  become  acquainted  with  her,  to  talk 
with  her,  and  to  love  her  more.  There  was  no 
thought  of  wrong — until  the  Englishman  came;  for 
the  devotion  of  these  men  who  lived  alone,  and 
mostly  wifeless,  was  a  great  passionless  love  un- 
hinting  of  sin,  and  Cummins  and  his  wife  accepted 
it,  and  added  to  it  when  they  could,  and  were  the 
happiest  pair  in  all  that  vast  Northland. 

The  first  year  brought  great  changes.  The  girl 
— she  was  scarce  more  than  budding  into  woman 
hood — fell  happily  into  the  ways  of  her  new  life. 
She  did  nothing  that  was  elementally  unusual — 
nothing  more  than  any  pure  woman  reared  in  the  love 
of  a  God  and  home  would  have  done.  In  her  spare 
hours  she  began  to  teach  the  half  dozen  wild  little 
children  about  the  post,  and  every  Sunday  told  them 
wonderful  stories  out  of  the  Bible.  She  ministered 
to  the  sick,  for  that  was  a  part  of  her  code  of  life. 
Everywhere  she  carried  her  glad  smile,  her  cheery 
greeting,  her  wistful  earnestness  to  brighten  what 
seemed  to  her  the  sad  and  lonely  lives  of  these  silent, 
worshipful  men  of  the  North.  And  she  succeeded, 
not  because  she  was  unlike  other  millions  of  her  kind, 
3but  because  of  the  difference  between  the  fortieth 
and  the  sixtieth  degrees — the  difference  in  the  view 
point  of  men  who  fought  themselves  into  moral 
shreds  in  the  big  game  of  life  and  those  who  lived 
a  thousand  miles  nearer  to  the  dome  of  the  earth. 
At  the  end  of  this  first  year  came  the  wonderful 
event  in  the  history  of  the  Company's  post,  which 


THE  HONOR  OF  HER  PEOPLE   185 

had  tlie  Barren  Lands  at  its  back  door.  One  day 
a  new  life  was  born  into  the  little  cabin  of  Cummins 
and  his  wife. 

After  this  the  silent,  wordless  worship  of  Jan  and 
his  people  was  filled  with  something  very  near  to 
pathos.  Cummins'  wife  was  a  mother.  She  was 
one  of  them  now,  a  part  of  their  indissoluble  exis 
tence — a  part  of  it  as  truly  as  the  strange  lights  for 
ever  hovering  over  the  Pole,  as  surely  as  the  countless 
stars  that  never  left  the  night  skies,  as  surely  as  the 
endless  forests  and  the  deep  snows !  There  was  an 
added  value  to  Cummins  now.  If  there  was  a  long 
and  dangerous  mission  to  perform  it  was  somehow 
arranged  so  that  he  was  left  behind.  Only  Jan  and 
one  or  two  others  knew  why  his  traps  made  the  best 
catch  of  fur,  for  more  than  once  he  had  slipped  a 
mink  of  an  ermine  or  a  fox  into  one  of  Cummins' 
traps,  knowing  that  it  would  mean  a  luxury  or  two 
for  the  woman  and  the  baby.  And  when  Cummins 
left  the  post,  sometimes  for  a  day  and  sometimes 
longer,  the  mother  and  her  child  fell  as  a  brief 
heritage  to  those  who  remained.  The  keenest  eyes 
would  not  have  discovered  that  this  was  so. 

In  the  second  year,  with  the  beginning  of  trap 
ping,  fell  the  second  and  third  great  events.  Cum 
mins  disappeared.  Then  came  the  Englishman.  For 
a  time  the  first  of  these  two  overshadowed  every 
thing  else  at  the  post.  Cummins  had  gone  to  pros 
pect  a  new  trap-line,  and  was  to  sleep  out  the  first 
night.  The  second  night  he  was  still  gone.  On  the 
third  day  came  the  "Beeg  Snow."  It  began  at 


186          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

dawn,  thickened  as  the  day  went,  and  continued  to 
thicken  until  it  became  that  soft,  silent  deluge  of 
white  in  which  no  man  dared  venture  a  thousand 
yards  from  his  door.  The  Aurora  was  hidden. 
There  were  no  stars  in  the  sky  at  night.  Day  was 
weighted  with  a  strange,  noiseless  gloom.  In  all  that 
wilderness  there  was  not  a  creature  that  moved. 
Sixty  hours  later,  when  visible  life  was  resumed 
again,  the  caribou,  the  wolf  and  the  fox  dug  them 
selves  up  out  of  six  feet  of  snow,  and  found  the 
world  changed. 

It  was  at  the  beginning  of  the  "Beeg  Snow"  that 
'Jan  went  to  the  woman's  cabin.  He  tapped  upon 
her  door  with  the  timidity  of  a  child,  and  when 
she  opened  it,  her  great  eyes  glowing  at  him  in  wild 
questioning,  her  face  white  with  a  terrible  fear, 
there  was  a  chill  at  his  heart  which  choked  back 
what  he  had  come  to  say.  He  walked  in  dumbly 
and  stood  with  the  snow  falling  off  him  in  piles,  and 
when  Cummins'  wife  saw  neither  hope  nor  fore- 
'boding  in  his  dark,  set  face  she  buried  her  face  in 
!her  arms  upon  the  little  table  and  sobbed  softly  in 
her  despair.  Jan  strove  to  speak,  but  the  Cree  in 
him  drove  back  what  was  French  and  "just  white," 
and  he  stood  in  mute,  trembling  torture.  "Ah,  the 
Great  God!"  his  soul  was  crying.  "What  can  I 
do?" 

Upon  its  little  cot  the  woman's  child  was  asleep. 
Beside  the  stove  there  were  a  few  sticks  of  wood. 
He  stretched  himself  until  his  neck  creaked  to  see 
if  there  was  water  in  the  barrel  near  the  door.  Then 


THE   HONOR   OF   HER   PEOPLE       187. 

Ee  looked  again  at  the  bowed  head  and  the  shiv 
ering  form  at  the  table.  In  that  moment  Jan's 
resolution  soared  very  near  to  the  terrible. 

"Mees  Cummin,  I  go  hunt  for  heem!"  he  cried. 
"I  go  hunt  for  heem — an'  fin'  heem!" 

He  waited  another  moment,  and  then  backed 
softly  toward  the  door. 

"I  hunt  for  heem!"  he  repeated,  fearing  that  she 
had  not  heard. 

She  lifted  her  face,  and  the  beating  of  Jan's  heart 
sounded  to  him  like  the  distant  thrumming  of  part 
ridge  wings.  Ah,  the  Great  God — would  he  ever 
forget  that  look!  She  was  coming  to  him,  a  new 
glory  in  her  eyes,  her  arms  reaching  out,  her  lips 
parted!  Jan  knew  how  the  Great  Spirit  had  once 
appeared  to  Mukee,  the  half-Cree,  and  how  a  white 
mist,  like  a  snow  veil,  had  come  between  the  half- 
breed's  eyes  and  the  wondrous  thing  he  beheld. 
And  that  same  snow  veil  drifted  between  Jan  and  the 
woman.  Like  in  a  vision  he  saw  her  glorious  face 
so  near  to  him  that  his  blood  was  frightened  into 
a  strange,  wonderful  sensation  that  it  had  never 
known  before.  He  felt  the  touch  of  her  sweet  breath, 
he  heard  her  passionate  prayer,  he  knew  that  one  of 
his  rough  hands  was  clasped  in  both  her  own — and 
he  knew,  too,  that  their  soft,  thrilling  warmth  would 
remain  with  him  until  he  died,  and  still  go  into 
Paradise  with  him. 

When  he  trudged  back  into  the  snow,  knee-deep 
now,  he  sought  Mukee,  the  half-breed.  Mukee  had 
suffered  a  lynx  bite  that  went  deep  into  the  bone. 


188          BACK   TO   GOD'S    COUNTRY 

and  Cummins'  wife  had  saved  Ms  hand.  After 
that  the  savage  in  him  was  enslaved  to  her  like  an 
invisible  spirit,  and  when  Jan  slipped  on  his  snow- 
shoes  to  set  out  into  the  deadly  chaos  of  the  "Beeg 
Storm"  Mukee  was  ready  to  follow.  A  trail 
through  the  spruce  forest  led  them  to  the  lake  across 
which  Jan  knew  that  Cummins  had  intended  to  go. 
Beyond  that,  a  matter  of  six  miles  or  so,  there  was 
a  deep  and  lonely  break  between  two  mountainous 
ridges  in  which  Cummins  believed  he  might  find 
lynx.  Indian  instinct  guided  the  two  across  the  lake. 
There  they  separated,  Jan  going  as  nearly  as  he 
could  guess  into  the  northwest,  Mukee  trailing 
swiftly  and  hopelessly  into  the  south,  both  inspired 
in  the  face  of  death  by  the  thought  of  a  woman  with 
sunny  hair,  and  with  lips  and  eyes  that  had  sent 
many  a  shaft  of  hope  and  gladness  into  their  deso 
late  hearts. 

It  was  no  great  sacrifice  for  Jan,  this  struggle 
with  the  "Beeg  Snows"  for  the  woman's  sake. 
What  it  wTas  to  Mukee,  the  half-Cree,  no  man  ever 
guessed  or  knew,  for  it  wras  not  until  the  late  spring 
snows  had  gone  that  they  found  what  the  foxes  and 
the  wolves  had  left  of  him,  far  to  the  south. 

A  hand,  soft  and  gentle,  guided  Jan.  He  felt 
the  warmth  of  it  and  the  thrill  of  it,  and  neither 
the  warmth  nor  the  thrill  grew  less  as  the  hours 
passed  and  the  snow  fell  deeper.  His  soul  was 
burning  with  a  joy  that  it  had  never  known.  Beau 
tiful  visions  danced  in  his  brain,  and  always  he  heard 


THE  HONOR  OF  HEE  PEOPLE   189 

the  woman 's  voice  praying  to  him  in  the  little  cabin, 
saw  her  eyes  upon  him  through  that  white  snow 
veil!  Ah,  what  would  he  not  give  if  he  could  find 
the  man,  if  he  could  take  Cummins  back  to  his  wife, 
and  stand  for  one  moment  more  with  her  hands 
clasping  his,  her  joy  flooding  him  with  a  sweetness 
that  would  last  for  all  time !  He  plunged  fearlessly 
into  the  white  world  beyond  the  lake,  his  wide  snow- 
shoes  sinking  ankle-deep  at  every  step.  There  was 
neither  rock  nor  tree  to  guide  him,  for  everywhere 
was  the  heavy  ghost-raiment  of  the  Indian  God.  The 
balsams  were  bending  under  it,  the  spruces  were 
breaking  into  hunchback  forms,  the  whole  world  was 
twisted  in  noiseless  torture  under  its  increasing 
weight,  and  out  through  the  still  terror  of  it  all 
Jan's  voice  went  in  wild  echoing  shouts.  Now  and 
then  he  fired  his  rifle,  and  always  he  listened  long 
and  intently.  The  echoes  came  back  to  him,  laugh 
ing,  taunting,  and  then  each  time  fell  the  mirthless 
silence  of  the  storm.  Night  came,  a  little  darker  than 
the  day,  and  Jan  stopped  to  build  a  fire  and  eat 
sparingly  of  his  food,  and  to  sleep.  It  was  still 
night  when  he  aroused  himself  and  stumbled  on. 
Never  did  he  take  the  weight  of  his  rifle  from  his 
right  hand  or  shoulder,  for  he  knew  this  weight 
would  shorten  the  distance  traveled  at  each  step  by 
his  right  foot,  and  would  make  him  go  in  a  circle 
that  would  bring  him  back  to  the  lake.  But  it  was 
a  long  circle.  The  day  passed.  A  second  night  fell 
upon  him,  and  his  hope  of  finding  Cummins  was 
gone.  A  chill  crept  in  where  his  heart  had  been  so 


190          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTEY 

warm,  and  somehow  that  soft  pressure  of  a  woman 'g 
hand  upon  his  seemed  to  become  less  and  less  real 
to  him.  The  woman's  prayers  were  following  him, 
her  heart  was  throbbing  with  its  hope  in  him — and 
he  had  failed!  On  the  third  day,  when  the  storm 
was  over,  Jan  staggered  hopelessly  into  the  post. 
He  went  straight  to  the  woman,  disgraced,  heart 
broken.  When  he  came  out  of  the  little  cabin  he 
seemed  to  have  gone  mad.  A  wondrously  strange 
thing  had  happened.  He  had  spoken  not  a  word, 
but  his  failure  and  his  sufferings  were  written  in  his 
face,  and  when  Cummins'  wife  saw  and  understood 
she  went  as  white  as  the  underside  of  a  poplar  leaf 
in  a  clouded  sun.  But  that  was  not  all.  She  came 
to  him,  and  clasped  one  of  his  half-frozen  hands  to 
iher  bosom,  and  he  heard  her  say,  "God  bless  yon 
forever,  Jan!  You  have  done  the  best  you  could!" 
The  Great  God — was  that  not  reward  for  the  risk 
ing  of  a  miserable,  worthless  life  such  as  his?  He 
went  to  his  shack  and  slept  long,  and  dreamed,  some 
times  of  the  woman,  and  of  Cummins  and  Mukee,  the 
half-Cree. 

On  the  first  crust  of  the  new  snow  came  the  Eng 
lishman  up  from  Fort  Churchill,  on  Hudson's  Bay. 
He  came  behind  six  dogs,  and  was  driven  by  an 
Indian,  and  he  bore  letters  to  the  factor  which  pro 
claimed  him  something  of  considerable  importance 
at  the  home  office  of  the  Company,  in  London. 

As  such  he  was  given  the  best  bed  in  the  factor's 
rude  home.  On  the  second  day  he  saw  Cummins'1 


THE  HONOR  OF  HER  PEOPLE   191 

wife  at  the  Company's  store,  and  very  soon  learned 
the  history  of  Cummins'  disappearance. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  the  real  tragedy  at  the 
post.  The  wilderness  is  a  grim  oppressor  of  life. 
To  those  who  survive  in  it  the  going  out  of  life 
is  but  an  incident,  an  irresistible  and  natural  thing, 
unpleasant  but  without  horror.  So  it  was  with  the 
passing  of  Cummins.  But  the  Englishman  brought 
with  him  something  new,  as  the  woman  had  brought 
something  new,  only  in  this  instance  it  was  an  ele 
ment  of  life  which  Jan  and  his  people  could  not 
understand,  an  element  which  had  never  found  a 
place,  and  never  could,  in  the  hearts  and  souls  of 
the  post.  On  the  other  hand,  it  promised  to  be  but 
an  incident  to  the  Englishman,  a  passing  adventure 
in  pleasure  common  to  the  high  and  glorious  civili 
zation  from  which  he  had  come.  Here  again  was 
that  difference  of  viewpoint,  the  eternity  of  differ 
ence  between  the  middle  and  the  end  of  the  earth. 
As  the  days  passed,  and  the  crust  grew  deeper  upon 
the  "Beeg  Snows,"  the  tragedy  progressed  rapidly 
toward  finality.  At  first  Jan  did  not  understand.; 
The  others  did  not  understand.  When  the  worm 
of  the  Englishman's  sin  revealed  itself  it  struck 
them  with  a  dumb,  terrible  fear. 

The  Englishman  came  from  among  women.  For 
months  he  had  been  in  a  torment  of  desolation. 
Cummins'  wife  was  to  him  like  a  flower  suddenly 
come  to  relieve  the  tantalizing  barrenness  of  a 
desert,  and  with  the  wiles  and  soft  speech  of  his 
kind  he  sought  to  breathe  its  fragrance.  In  the 


192          BACK   TO    GOD'S    COUNTEY 

;weeks  that  followed  the  flower  seemed  to  come  nearer 
to  him,  and  this  was  because  Jan  and  his  people  had 
not  as  yet  fully  measured  the  heart  of  the  woman, 
and  because  the  Englishman  had  not  measured  Jan 
and  his  people  he  talked  a  great  deal  when  enthused 
by  the  warmth  of  the  box  stove  and  his  thoughts. 
So  human  passions  were  set  at  play.  Because  the 
woman  knew  nothing  of  what  was  said  about  the 
box  stove  she  continued  in  the  even  course  of  her 
pure  life,  neither  resisting  nor  encouraging  the  new 
comer,  yet  ever  tempting  him  with  that  sweetness 
which  she  gave  to  all  alike,  and  still  praying  in  the 
still  hours  of  night  that  Cummins  would  return  to 
her.  As  yet  there  was  no  suspicion  in  her  soul. 
She  accepted  the  Englishman's  friendship.  His 
sympathy  for  her  won  him  a  place  in  her  recognition 
of  things  good  and  true.  She  did  not  hear  the  false 
note,  she  saw  no  step  that  promised  evil.  Only  Jan 
and  his  people  saw  and  understood  the  one-sided 
struggle,  and  shivered  at  the  monstrous  evil  of  it* 
At  least  they  thought  they  saw  and  understood, 
which  was  enough.  Like  so  many  faithful  beasts 
they  were  ready  to  spring,  to  rend  flesh,  to  tear  life 
out  of  him  who  threatened  the  desecration  of  all 
that  was  good  and  pure  and  beautiful  to  them,  and 
yet,  dumb  in  their  devotion  and  faith,  they  waited 
and  watched  for  a  sign  from  the  woman.  The  blue 
eyes  of  Cummins '  wife,  the  words  of  her  gentle  lips, 
the  touch  of  her  hands  had  made  law  at  the  post. 
She,  herself,  had  become  the  omniscience  of  all  that 
was  law  to  them,  and  if  she  smiled  upon  the  Eng- 


THE  HONOR  OF  HER  PEOPLE   193 

lishman,  and  talked  with  him,  and  was  pleased  with 
him,  that  was  only  one  other  law  that  she  had  made 
for  them  to  respect.  So  they  were  quiet,  evaded 
the  Englishman  as  much  as  possible,  and  watched — 
always  watched. 

These  were  days  when  something  worse  than  dis 
ease  was  eating  at  the  few  big  honest  hearts  that 
made  up  the  life  at  the  post.  The  search  for  Cum 
mins  never  ceased,  and  always  the  woman  was  re 
ceiving  hope.  Now  it  was  "Williams  who  went  far 
into  the  South,  and  brought  back  word  that  a  strange 
white  man  had  been  seen  among  the  Indians;  then 
it  was  Thoreau,  the  Frenchman,  who  skirted  the  edge 
of  the  Barren  Lands  three  days  into  the  West,  and 
said  that  he  had  found  the  signs  of  strange  camp- 
fires.  And  always  Jan  was  on  the  move,  to  the 
South,  the  North,  the  East  and  the  West.  The  days 
began  to  lengthen.  It  was  dawn  now  at  eight  o'clock 
instead  of  nine,  the  silvery  white  of  the  sun  was 
turning  day  by  day  more  into  the  glow  of  fire,  and 
for  a  few  minutes  at  midday  the  snow  softened  and 
water  dripped  from  the  roofs. 

Jan  knew  what  it  meant.  Very  soon  the  thick 
crust  of  the  "Beeg  Snow"  would  drop  in,  and  they 
would  find  Cummins.  They  would  bring  what  was 
left  of  him  back  to  the  post.  And  then — what  would 
happen  then? 

Every  day  or  two  Jan  found  some  pretext  that 
took  him  to  the  little  log  cabin.  Now  it  was  to  con 
vey  to  the  woman  a  haunch  of  a  caribou  he  had  slain. 
Again  it  was  to  bring  her  child  a  strange  plaything 


194          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTEY 

from  the  forest.  More  frequently  it  was  to  do  the 
work  that  Cummins  would  have  done.  He  seldom 
went  within  the  low  door,  but  stood  outside,  speak 
ing  a  few  words,  while  Cummins '  wife  talked  to  him. 
But  one  morning,  when  the  sun  was  shining  down 
with  the  first  promising  warmth  of  spring,  the 
woman  stepped  back  from  the  door  and  asked  him  in. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something,  Jan,"  she  said 
softly.  "I  have  been  thinking  about  it  for  a  long 
time.  I  must  find  some  work  to  do.  I  must  do  some 
thing — to  earn — money." 

Jan's  eyes  leaped  straight  to  hers  in  sudden 
horror. 

"Work!" 

The  word  fell  from  him  as  if  in  its  utterance  there 
was  something  of  crime.  Then  he  stood  speechless, 
awed  by  the  look  in  her  eyes,  the  hard  gray  pallor 
that  came  into  her  face. 

"May  God  bless  you  for  all  you  have  done,  Jan, 
and  may  God  bless  the  others !  I  want  you  to  take 
that  word  to  them  from  me.  But  he  will  never  come 
back,  Jan — never.  Tell  the  men  that  I  love  them 
as  brothers,  and  always  shall  love  them,  but  now 
that  I  know  he  is  dead  I  can  no  longer  live  as  a  drone 
among  them.  I  will  do  anything.  I  will  make  your 
coats,  do  your  washing  and  mend  your  moccasins. 
To-morrow  I  begin  my  first  work — for  money." 

He  heard  what  she  said  after  that  as  if  in  a  dream. 
When  he  went  out  into  the  day  again,  with  her  word 
to  his  people,  he  knew  that  in  some  way  which  he 
could  not  understand  this  big,  cold  world  had 


THE  HONOR  OF  HER  PEOPLE   195 

changed  for  him.  To-morrow  Cummins'  wife  was 
to  begin  writing  letters  for  the  Englishman!  His 
eyes  glittered,  his  hands  clenched  themselves  upon 
his  breast,  and  all  the  blood  in  him  submerged  itself 
in  one  wild  resistless  impulse.  An  hour  later  Jan 
and  his  four  dogs  were  speeding  swiftly  into  the 
South. 

The  next  day  the  Englishman  went  to  the  woman 's 
cabin.  He  did  not  return  in  the  afternoon.  And 
that  same  afternoon,  when  Cummins '  wife  came  into 
the  Company's  store,  a  quick  flush  shot  into  her 
cheeks  and  the  glitter  of  blue  diamonds  into  her  eyes 
when  she  saw  the  Englishman  standing  there.  The 
man's  red  face  grew  redder,  and  he  shifted  his  gaze. 
When  Cummins '  wife  passed  him  she  drew  her  skirt 
close  to  her,  and  there  was  the  poise  of  a  queen  in 
her  head,  the  glory  of  mother  and  wife  and  woman 
hood,  the  living,  breathing  essence  of  all  that  was 
beautiful  in  Jan's  " honor  of  the  Beeg  Snows."  But 
Jan,  twenty  miles  to  the  south,  did  not  know. 

He  returned  on  the  fourth  night  and  went  quietly 
to  his  little  shack  in  the  edge  of  the  balsam  forest. 
In  the  glow  of  the  oil  lamp  which  he  lighted  he  rolled 
up  his  treasure  of  winter-caught  furs  into  a  small 
pack.  Then  he  opened  his  door  and  walked  straight 
and  fearlessly  toward  the  cabin  of  Cummins'  wife. 
It  was  a  pale,  glorious  night,  and  Jan  lifted  his  face 
to  its  starry  skies  and  filled  his  lungs  near  to  burst 
ing  with  its  pure  air,  and  when  he  was  within  a 
few  steps  of  the  woman's  door  he  burst  into  a  wild 
snatch  of  triumphant  forest  song.  For  this  was  a 


196          BACK   TO   GOD'S    COUNTRY 

new  Jan  who  was  returning  to  her,  a  man  who  had 
gone  out  into  the  solitudes  and  fought  a  great  battle 
with  the  elementary  things  in  him,  and  who,  because 
of  his  triumph  over  these  things,  was  filled  with  the 
strength  and  courage  to  live  a  great  lie.  The 
woman  heard  his  voice,  and  recognized  it.  The  door 
swung  open,  wide  and  brimful  of  light,  and  in  it 
stood  Cummins'  wife,  her  child  hugged  close  in  her 
arms. 

Jan  crowed  close  up  out  of  the  starry  gloom. 

"I  fin'  heem,  Mees  Cummins — I  fin'  heem  nint' 
miles  back  in  Cree  wigwam — with  broke  leg.  He 
come  home  soon — he  sen'  great  love — an'  these!" 

And  he  dropped  his  furs  at  the  woman's  feet.  .  .  . 

"Ah,  the  Great  God!"  cried  Jan's  tortured  soul, 
when  it  was  all  over.  "At  least  she  shall  not  work 
for  the  dirty  Englishman!" 

First  he  awoke  the  factor,  and  told  him  what  he 
had  done.  Then  he  went  to  Williams,  and  after  that, 
one  by  one,  these  three  visited  the  four  other  white 
and  part  white  men  at  the  post.  They  lived  very 
near  to  the  earth,  these  seven,  and  the  spirit  of  the 
golden  rule  was  as  natural  to  their  living  as  green 
sap  to  the  trees.  So  they  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder 
to  Jan  in  a  scheme  that  appalled  them,  and  in  the 
very  first  day  of  this  scheme  they  saw  the  woman 
blossoming  forth  in  her  old  beauty  and  joy,  and  at 
times  fleeting  visions  of  the  old  happiness  at  the 
post  came  to  these  lonely  men  who  were  searing  their 
souls  for  her.  But  to  Jan  one  vision  came  to  de- 


stroy  all  others,  and  as  the  old  light  returned  to 
the  woman's  eyes,  the  glad  smile  to  her  lips,  the 
sweetness  of  thankfulness  and  faith  into  her  voice, 
this  vision  hurt  him  until  he  rolled  and  tossed  in 
agony  at  night,  and  by  day  his  feet  were  never  still. 
His  search  for  Cummins  now  had  something  of  mad 
ness  in  it.  It  was  his  one  hope — where  to  the  other 
six  there  was  no  hope.  And  one  day  this  spark  went 
out  of  him.  The  crust  was  gone.  The  snow  was 
settling.  Beyond  the  lake  he  found  the  chasm  be 
tween  the  two  mountains,  and,  miles  of  this  chasm, 
robbed  to  the  bones  of  flesh,  he  found  Cummins. 
The  bones,  and  Cummins '  gun,  and  all  that  was  left 
of  him,  he  buried  in  a  crevasse. 

He  waited  until  night  to  return  to  the  post.  Only 
one  light  was  burning  when  he  came  out  into  the 
clearing,  and  that  was  the  light  in  the  woman's 
cabin.  In  the  edge  of  the  balsams  he  sat  down  to 
watch  it,  as  he  had  watched  it  a  hundred  nights 
before.  Suddenly  something  came  between  him  and 
the  light.  Against  the  cabin  he  saw  the  shadow  of 
a  human  form,  and  as  silently  as  the  steely  flash  of 
the  Aurora  over  his  head,  as  swiftly  as  a  lean  deer, 
he  sped  through  the  gloom  of  the  forest's  edge  and 
came  up  behind  the  home  of  the  woman  and  her 
child.  With  the  caution  of  a  lynx,  his  head  close 
to  the  snow,  he  peered  around  the  end  of  the  logs. 
It  was  the  Englishman  who  stood  looking  through 
the  tear  in  the  curtained  window !  Jan 's  moccasined 
feet  made  no  sound.  His  hand  fell  as  gently  as  a 
child's  upon  the  Englishman's  arm. 


198          BACK  TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

"Thees  is  not  the  honor  of  the  Beeg  Snows!"  he 
whispered.  ' '  Come. ' ' 

A  sickly  pallor  filled  the  Englishman's  face.  But 
Jan's  voice  was  soft  and  dispassionate,  his  touch 
was  velvety  in  its  hint,  and  he  went  with  the  guiding 
.hand  away  from  the  curtained  window,  smiling  in  a 
companionable  way.  Jan's  teeth  gleamed,  back. 
The  Englishman  chuckled.  Then  Jan's  hands 
changed.  They  flew  to  the  thick  reddening  throat 
of  the  man  from  civilization,  and  without  a  sound 
the  two  sank  together  upon  the  snow.  It  was  many 
minutes  before  Jan  rose  to  his  feet.  The  next  day 
Williams  set  out  for  Fort  Churchill  with  word  for 
the  Company's  home  office  that  the  Englishman  had 
died  in  the  "Beeg  Snow,"  which  was  true. 

The  end  was  not  far  away  now.  Jan  was  expect 
ing  it  day  by  day,  hour  by  hour.  But  it  came  in  a 
way  that  he  did  not  expect.  A  month  had  gone,  and 
Cummins  had  not  come  up  from  among  the  Crees.; 
At  times  there  was  a  strange  light  in  the  woman's 
eyes  as  she  questioned  the  men  at  the  post.  Then, 
one  day,  the  factor's  son  told  Jan  that  she  wanted 
to  see  him  in  the  little  cabin  at  the  other  end  of  the 
clearing. 

A  shiver  went  through  him  as  he  came  to  the 
door.  It  was  more  than  a  spirit  of  unrest  in  Jan 
to-day,  more  than  suspicion,  more  than  his  old  dread 
of  that  final  moment  of  the  tragedy  he  was  playing, 
which  would  condemn  him  to  everlasting  perdition 
in  the  woman's  eyes.  It  was  pain,  poignant,  ter 
rible — something  which  he  could  not  name,  some- 


THE  HONOR  OF  HER  PEOPLE   199 

thing  upon  which  he  could  place  his  hand,  and  yet 
which  filled  him  with  a  desire  to  throw  himself  upon 
his  face  in  the  snow  and  sob  out  his  grief  as  he  had 
seen  the  little  children  do.  It  was  not  dread,  but 
the  torment  of  reality,  that  gripped  him  now,  and 
when  he  faced  the  woman  he  knew  why.  There  had 
come  a  terrible  change,  but  a  quiet  change,  in  Cum 
mins'  wife.  The  luster  had  gone  from  her  eyes. 
There  was  a  dead  whiteness  in  her  face  that  went 
to  the  roots  of  her  shimmering  hair,  and  as  she  spoke 
to  Jan  she  clutched  one  hand  upon  her  bosom,  which 
rose  and  fell  as  Jan  had  seen  the  breast  of  a  mother 
lynx  rise  and  fall  in  the  last  torture  of  its  death. 

"Jan,"  she  panted,  "Jan — you  have  lied  to  me!" 

Jan's  head  dropped.  The  worn  caribou  skin  of 
his  coat  crumpled  upon  his  breast.  His  heart  died. 
And  yet  he  found  voice,  soft,  low,  simple. 

"Yes,  me  lie!" 

"You — you  lied  to  me!" 

"Yes— me— lie " 

His  head  dropped  lower.  He  heard  the  oobbing 
breath  of  the  woman,  and  gently  his  arm  crooked 
itself,  and  his  fingers  rose  slowly,  very  slowly, 
toward  the  hilt  of  his  hunting  knife. 

"Yes — Mees  Cummins — me  lie " 

There  came  a  sudden  swift,  sobbing  movement, 
and  the  woman  was  at  Jan's  feet,  clasping  his  nand 
to  her  bosom  as  she  had  clasped  it  once  before  when 
he  had  gone  out  to  face  death  for  her.  But  this 
time  the  snow  veil  was  very  thick  before  Jan's  eyes, 
and  he  did  not  see  her  face.  Only  he  heard. 


200          BACK   TO   GOD'S    COUNTRY 

"  Bless  you,  dear  Jan,  and  may  God  bless  you 
evermore!  For  you  have  been  good  to  me,  Jan — 
so  good — to  me " 

And  he  went  out  into  the  day  again  a  few  moments 
later,  leaving  her  alone  in  her  great  grief,  for  Jan 
was  a  man  in  the  wild  and  mannerless  ways  of  a 
savage  world,  and  he  knew  not  how  to  comfort  in 
the  fashion  of  that  other  world  which  had  other  con 
ceptions  and  another  understanding  of  what  was  to 
him  the  "honor  of  the  Beeg  Snows. " 

A  week  later  the  woman  announced  her  intention 
of  returning  to  her  people,  for  the  dome  of  the  earth 
had  grown  sad  and  lonely  and  desolate  to  her  now 
that  Cummins  was  forever  gone.  Sometimes  the 
death  of  a  beloved  friend  brings  with  it  the  sadness 
that  spread  like  a  pall  over  Jan  and  those  others 
who  had  lived  very  near  to  contentment  and  happi 
ness  for  nearly  two  years,  only  each  knew  that  this 
grief  of  his  would  be  as  enduring  as  life  itself.  For 
a  brief  space  the  sweetest  of  all  God's  things  had 
come  among  them,  a  pure  woman  who  brought  with 
her  the  gentleness  and  beauty  and  hallowed  thoughts 
of  civilization  in  place  of  its  iniquities,  and  the  pic 
tures  in  their  hearts  were  imperishable. 

The  parting  was  as  simple  and  as  quiet  as  when 
the  Avoman  had  come.  They  went  to  the  little  cabin 
where  the  sledge  dogs  stood  harnessed.  Hatless, 
silent,  crowding  back  their  grief  behind  grim  and 
lonely  countenances,  they  waited  for  Cummins'  wife 
to  say  good-bye.  The  woman  did  not  speak.  She 
held  up  her  child  for  each  man  to  kiss,  and  the  baby 


THE  HONOR  OF  HER  PEOPLE   201 

babbled  meaningless  things  into  the  bearded  faces 
that  it  had  come  to  know  and  love,  and  when  it  came 
to  "Williams'  turn  he  whispered,  "Be  a  good  baby, 
be  a  good  baby."  And  when  it  was  all  over  the 
woman  crushed  the  child  to  her  breast  and  dropped 
sobbing  upon  the  sledge,  and  Jan  cracked  his  whip 
and  shouted  hoarsely  to  the  dogs,  for  it  was  Jan  who 
was  to  drive  her  to  civilization.  Long  after  they 
had  disappeared  beyond  the  clearing  those  who  re 
mained  stood  looking  at  the  cabin;  and  then,  with 
a  dry,  strange  sob  in  his  throat,  Williams  led  the 
way  inside.  When  they  came  out  Williams  brought 
a  hammer  with  him,  and  nailed  the  door  tight. 

"Mebby  she'll  come  back  some  day,"  he 
said. 

That  was  all,  but  the  others  understood. 

For  nine  days  Jan  raced  his  dogs  into  the  South* 
On  the  tenth  they  came  to  Le  Pas.  It  was  night 
when  they  stopped  before  the  little  log  hotel,  and 
the  gloom  hid  the  twitching  in  Jan's  face. 

"You  will  stay  here — to-night!"  asked  the 
woman. 

"Me  go  back — now,"  said  Jan. 

Cummins'  wife  came  very  close  to  him.  She  did 
not  urge,  for  she,  too,  was  suffering  the  torture  of 
this  last  parting  with  the  "honor  of  the  Beeg 
Snows."  It  was  not  the  baby's  face  that  came  to 
Jan's  now,  but  the  woman's.  He  felt  the  soft  touch 
of  her  lips,  and  his  soul  burst  forth  in  a  low,  agon 
ized  cry. 

"The  good  God  bless  you,  and  keep  you,  and  care 


202          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

for  yon  evermore,  Jan,"  she  whispered.     "Some 
day  we  will  meet  again." 

And  she  kissed  him  again,  and  lifted  the  child  to 
him,  and  Jan  turned  his  tired  dogs  back  into  the 
grim  desolation  of  the  North,  where  the  Aurora  was 
lighting  his  way  feebly,  and  beckoning  to  him,  and 
telling  him  that  the  old  life  of  centuries  and  cen 
turies  ago  was  waiting  for  him  there. 


BUCKY  SEVERN 

FATHEE  BROCKET  had  come  south  from  Fond  du 
Lac,  and  "Weyman,  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company  doc 
tor,  north  through  the  Geikee  River  country.  They 
had  met  at  Severn's  cabin,  on  the  "Waterfound. 
Both  had  come  on  the  same  mission — to  see  Severn ; 
one  to  keep  him  from  dying,  if  that  was  possible, 
one  to  comfort  him  in  the  last  hour,  if  death  came. 

Severn  insisted  on  living.  Bright-eyed,  hollow- 
cheeked,  with  a  racking  cough  that  reddened  the 
gauze  handkerchief  the  doctor  had  given  him,  he 
sat  bolstered  up  in  his  cot  and  looked  out  through 
the  open  door  with  glad  and  hopeful  gaze.  Weyman 
had  arrived  only  half  an  hour  before.  Outside  was 
the  Indian  canoeman  who  had  helped  to  bring  him 
up. 

It  was  a  glorious  day,  such  as  comes  in  its  full 
beauty  only  in  the  far  northern  spring,  where  the 
air  enters  the  lungs  like  sharp,  warm  wine,  laden 
with  the  tang  of  spruce  and  balsam,  and  the  sweet 
ness  of  the  bursting  poplar-buds. 

"It  was  mighty  good  of  you  to  come  up,"  Severn 
was  saying  to  the  doctor.  "The  company  has  al- 

203 


204          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTBY 

ways  been  the  best  friend  I've  ever  had — except  one 
— and  that's  why  I've  hung  to  it  all  these  years, 
trailing  the  sledges  first  as  a  kid,  you  know,  then 
trapping,  running,  and — oh,  Lord!" 

He  stopped  to  cough,  and  the  little  black-frocked 
missioner,  looking  across  at  "Weyman,  saw  him  bite 
his  lips. 

''That  cough  hurts,  but  it's  better/'  Severn  apolo 
gized,  smiling  weakly.  " Funny,  ain't  it,  a  man  like 
me  coming  down  with  a  cough?  Why,  I've  slept  in 
ice  a  thousand  times,  with  snow  for  a  pillow  and  the 
thermometer  down  to  fifty.  But  this  last  winter  it 
was  cold,  seventy  or  lower,  an'  I  worked  in  it  when 
I  ought  to  have  been  inside,  warming  my  toes.  But, 
you  see,  I  wanted  to  get  the  cabin  built,  an'  things 
all  cleared  up  about  here,  before  she  came.  It's  the 
cold  that  got  me,  wasn't  it,  doc?" 

" That's  it,"  said  Weyman,  rolling  and  lighting 
a  cigarette.  Then  he  laughed,  as  the  sick  man  fin 
ished  another  coughing  spell,  and  said: 

"I  never  thought  you'd  have  a  love  affair, 
Bucky!" 

"Neither  did  I,"  chuckled  Severn.  "Ain't  it  a 
wonder,  doc?  Here  I'm  thirty-eight,  with  a  hide 
on  me  like  leather,  an'  no  thought  of  a  woman  foi 
twenty  years,  until  I  saw  her.  I  don't  mean  it's  a 
wonder  I  fell  in  love,  doc — you'd  'a'  done  that  if 
you'd  met  her  first.  The  wonder  of  it  is  that  she 
fell  in  love  with  me."  He  laughed  softly.  "I'll  bet 
Father  Brochet'll  go  in  a  heap  himself  when  he 
marries  us!  It's  goin' to  happen  next  month.  Did 


BUCKT   SEVERN  205 

you  ever  see  her,  father — Marie  La  Corne,  over  at 
the  post  on  Split  Lake?" 

Severn  dropped  his  head  to  cough,  but  Weyman 
say  the  sudden  look  of  horror  that  leaped  into  the 
little  priest's  face. 

"Marie  La  Corne!" 

"Yes,  at  Split  Lake." 

Severn  looked  up  again.  He  had  missed  what 
"Weyman  had  seen. 

"Yes,  I've  seen  her." 

Bucky  Severn's  eyes  lit  up  with  pleasure. 

"She's — she's  beautiful,  ain't  she?"  he  cried  in 
hoarse  whisper.  "Ain't  it  a  wonder,  father?  I 
come  up  there  with  a  canoe  full  of  supplies,  last 
spring  about  this  time,  an' — an'  at  first  I  hardly 
dast  to  look  at  her ;  but  it  came  out  all  right.  When 
I  told  her  I  was  coming  over  here  to  build  us  a 
home,  she  wanted  me  to  bring  her  along  to  help; 
but  I  wouldn't.  I  knew  it  was  goin'  to  be  hard  this 
winter,  and  she's  never  goin'  to  work — never  so 
long  as  I  live.  I  ain't  had  much  to  do  with  women, 


never  goin'  to  drudge  like  the  rest.  If  she'll  let  me, 
I'm  even  goin'  to  do  the  cookin'  an'  the  dish-washin', 
and  scrub  the  floors!  I've  done  it  for  twenty-five 
years,  an'  I'm  tough.  She  ain't  goin'  to  do  nothin' 
but  sew  for  the  kids  when  they  come,  an'  sing,  an' 
be  happy.  "When  it  comes  to  the  work  that  there 
ain't  no  fun  in,  I'll  do  it.  I've  planned  it  all  out. 
We're  goin'  to  have  half  an  arpent  square  of  flow 
ers,  an'  she'll  love  to  work  among  'em.  I've  got 


206          BACK   TO    GOD'S   COUNTRY 

the  ground  cleared — out  there — you  kin  see  it  by 
twisting  your  head  through  the  door.  An'  she's 
gx>in'  to  have  an  organ.  I've  got  the  money  saved, 
an'  it's  coming  to  Churchill  on  the  next  ship.  That's 
goin'  to  be  a  surprise — Hbout  Christmas,  when  the 
snow  is  hard  an'  sledging  good.  You  see 

He  stopped  again  to  cough.  A  hectic  flush  filled 
his  hollow  cheeks,  and  there  was  a  feverish  glow  in 
his  eyes.  As  he  bent  his  head,  the  priest  looked  at 
Weyman.  The  doctor's  lips  were  tense.  His  cigar 
ette  was  unlighted. 

"I  know  what  it  means  for  a  woman  to  die  a 
workin',"  Severn  went  on.  "My  mother  did  that. 
I  can  remember  it,  though  I  was  only  a  kid.  She 
was  bent  an'  stoop-shouldered,  an'  her  hands  were 
rough  and  twisted.  I  know  now  why  she  used  to 
hug  me  up  close  and  croon  funny  things  over  me 
when  father  was  away.  "When  I  first  told  my  Marie 
what  I  was  goin '  to  do,  she  laughed  at  me ;  but  when 
I  told  her  'bout  my  mother,  an'  how  work  an' 
freezin'  an*  starvin'  killed  her  when  I  needed  her 
most,  Marie  jest  put  her  hand  up  to  my  face  an' 
looked  queer — an'  then  she  burst  out  crying  like 
a  baby.  She  understands,  Marie  does !  She  knows 
what  I'm  goin'  to  do " 

"You  mustn't  talk  any  more,  Bucky,"  warned  the 
doctor,  feeling  his  pulse.  "It'll  hurt  you." 

"Hurt  me!"  Severn  laughed  hysterically,  as  if 
what  the  doctor  had  said  was  a  joke.  "Hurt  me! 
It's  what's  going  to  put  me  on  my  feet,  doc.  I  know 
it  now,  I  been  too  much  alone  this  last  winter,  with 


BUCKY   SEVERN  207 

nothin'  but  my  dogs  to  talk  to  when  night  come.  I 
ain't  never  been  much  of  a  talker,  but  she  got  me 
out  o'  that.  She  used  to  tease  me  at  first,  an'  I'd 
get  red  in  the  face  an'  almost  bust.  An'  then,  one 
day,  it  come,  like  a  bung  out  of  a  hole,  an'  I've  had 
a  hankerin'  to  talk  ever  since.  Hurt  me!" 

He  gave  an  incredulous  chuckle,  which  ended  in 
a  cough. 

"Do  you  know,  I  wish  I  could  read  better  'n  I 
can!"  he  said  suddenly,  leaning  almost  eagerly 
toward  Father  Brochet.  "She  knows  I  ain't  great 
shucks  at  that.  She's  goin'  to  have  a  school  just 
as  soon  as  she  comes,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  be  the  scholar. 
She's  got  a  packful  of  books  an'  magazines  an'  I'm 
goin'  to  tote  over  a  fresh  load  every  winter.  I'd 
like  to  surprise  her.  Can't  you  help  me  to " 

Weyman  pressed  him  back  gently. 

"See  here,  Bucky,  you've  got  to  lie  down  and 
keep  quiet,"  he  said.  "If  you  don't,  it  will  take 
you  a  week  longer  to  get  well.  Try  and  sleep  a  little, 
while  Father  Brochet  and  I  go  outside  and  see  what 
you've  done." 

When  they  went  out,  Weyman  closed  the  door 
after  them.  He  spoke  no  word  as  he  turned  and 
looked  upon  what  Bucky  Severn  had  done  for  the 
coming  of  his  bride.  Father  Brochet 's  hand  touched 
the  doctor's  and  it  was  cold  and  trembling. 

"How  is  he!"  he  asked. 

"It  is  the  bad  malady,"  said  Weyman  softly. 
' '  The  frost  has  touched  his  hmgs.  One  does  not  feel 
the  effect  of  that  until  spring  comes.  Then — a 


208          BACK   TO   GOD'S    COUNTRY 

eougK — and  the  lungs  begin  literally  to  slough 
away. '  * 

"You  mean " 

"That  there  is  no  hope — absolutely  none.  He  will 
die  within  two  days." 

As  he  spoke,  the  little  priest  straightened  him 
self  and  lifted  his  hands  as  if  about  to  pronounce 
a  benediction. 

"Thank  God!"  he  breathed.  Then,  as  quickly, 
he  caught  himself.  "No,  I  don't  mean  that.  God 
forgive  me!  But — it  is  best." 

Weyman  stared  incredulously  into  his  face. 

"It  is  best,"  repeated  the  other,  as  gently  as  if 
speaking  a  prayer.  "How  strangely  the  Creator 
sometimes  works  out  His  ends!  I  came  straight 
here  from  Split  Lake.  Marie  La  Come  died  two 
weeks  ago.  It  was  I  who  said  the  last  prayer  over 
her  dead  body!" 


HIS  FIRST  PENITENT 

IN  a  white  wilderness  of  moaning  storm,  in  a 
wilderness  of  miles  and  miles  of  black  pine-trees, 
the  Transcontinental  Flier  lay  buried  in  the  snow. 

In  the  first  darkness  of  the  wild  December  night, 
engine  and  tender  had  rnshed  on  ahead  to  division 
headquarters,  to  let  the  line  know  that  the  flier  had 
given  np  the  fight,  and  needed  assistance.  They  had 
been  gone  two  hours,  and  whiter  and  whiter  grew 
the  brilliantly  lighted  coaches  in  the  drifts  and  win 
nows  of  the  whistling  storm.  From  the  black  edges 
of  the  forest,  prowling  eyes  might  have  looked  upon 
scores  of  human  faces  staring  anxiously  out  into  the 
blackness  from  the  windows  of  the  coaches. 

In  those  coaches  it  was  growing  steadily  colder. 
Men  were  putting  on  their  overcoats,  and  women 
snuggled  deeper  in  their  furs.  Over  it  all,  the  tops 
of  the  black  pine-trees  moaned  and  whistled  in 
sounds  that  seemed  filled  both  with  menace  and  with 
savage  laughter. 

In  the  smoldng-compartment  of  the  Pullman  sat 
five  men,  gathered  in  a  group.  Of  these,  one  was 
Forsythe,  the  timber  agent;  two  were  traveling 

209 


210          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

men ;  the  fourth  a  passenger  homeward  bonnd  from 
a  holiday  visit ;  and  the  fifth  was  Father  Charles. 

The  priest's  pale,  serious  face  lit  up  in  surprise  or 
laughter  with  the  others,  but  his  lips  had  not  broken 
into  a  story  of  their  own.  He  was  a  little  man, 
dressed  in  somber  black,  and  there  was  that  about 
him  which  told  his  companions  that  within  his  tight- 
drawn  coat  of  shiny  black  there  were  hidden  tales 
which  would  have  gone  well  with  the  savage  beat 
of  the  storm  against  the  lighted  windows  and  the 
moaning  tumult  of  the  pine-trees. 

Suddenly  Forsythe  shivered  at  a  fiercer  blast  than 
the  others,  and  said: 

"Father,  have  you  a  text  that  would  fit  this  night 
— and  the  situation?" 

Slowly  Father  Charles  blew  out  a  spiral  of  smoke 
from  between  his  lips,  and  then  he  drew  himself 
erect  and  leaned  a  little  forward,  with  the  cigar 
between  his  slender  white  fingers. 

"I  had  a  text  for  this  night,"  he  said,  "but  I 
have  none  now,  gentlemen.  I  was  to  have  married 
a  couple  a  hundred  miles  down  the  line.  The  guests 
have  assembled.  They  are  ready,  but  I  am  not  there. 
The  wedding  will  not  be  to-night,  and  so  my  text 
is  gone.  But  there  comes  another  to  my  mind  which 
fits  this  situation — and  a  thousand  others — 'He  who 
sits  in  the  heavens  shall  look  down  and  decide. '  To 
night  I  was  to  have  married  these  young  people. 
Three  hours  ago  I  never  dreamed  of  doubting  that 
I  should  be  on  hand  at  the  appointed  hour.  But 
I  shall  not  marry  them.  Fate  has  enjoined  a  hand. 


HIS  FIKST   PENITENT  211 

The  Supreme  Arbiter  says  'No/  and  what  may  not 
be  the  consequences?" 

"They  will  probably  be  married  to-morrow,"  said 
one  of  the  traveling  men.  "There  will  be  a  few 
hours '  delay — nothing  more." 

"Perhaps,"  replied  Father  Charles,  as  quietly  as 
before.  "And — perhaps  not.  "Who  can  say  what 
this  little  incident  may  not  mean  in  the  lives  of  that 
young  man  and  that  young  woman — and,  it  may  be, 
in  my  own?  Three  or  four  hours  lost  in  a  storm — 
what  may  they  not  mean  to  more  than  one  human 
heart  on  this  train?  The  Supreme  Arbiter  plays 
His  hand,  if  you  wish  to  call  it  that,  with  reason 
and  intent.  To  someone,  somewhere,  the  most  insig 
nificant  occurrence  may  mean  life  or  death.  And 
to-night — this — means  something. '  * 

A  sudden  blast  drove  the  night  screeching  over 
our  heads,  and  the  whining  of  the  pines  was  almost 
like  human  voices.  Forsythe  sucked  a  cigar  that 
had  gone  out. 

"Long  ago,"  said  Father  Charles,  "I  knew  a 
young  man  and  a  young  woman  who  were  to  be  mar 
ried.  The  man  went  West  to  win  a  fortune.  Thus 
fate  separated  them,  and  in  the  lapse  of  a  year  such 
terrible  misfortune  came  to  the  girPs  parents  that 
she  was  forced  into  a  marriage  with  wealth — a  barter 
of  her  white  body  for  an  old  man's  gold.  When  the 
young  man  returned  from  the  West  he  found  his 
sweetheart  married,  and  hell  upon  earth  was  their 
lot  But  hope  lingers  in  your  hearts.  He  waited  four 
years;  and  then,  discouraged,  he  married  another 


212          BACK   TO    GOD'S    COUNTRY 

woman.  Gentlemen,  tliree  days  after  the  wedding 
liis  old  sweetheart's  husband  died,  and  she  was  re 
leased  from  bondage.  AVas  not  that  the  hand  of 
the  Supreme  Arbiter?  If  he  had  waited  but  three 
days  more,  the  old  happiness  might  have  lived. 

"But  wait!  One  month  after  that  day  the  young 
man  was  arrested,  taken  to  a  Western  State,  tried 
-for  murder,  and  hanged.  Do  you  see  the  point?  In 
three  days  more  the  girl  who  had  sold  herself  into 
slavery  for  the  salvation  of  those  she  loved  would 
have  been  released  from  her  bondage  only  to  marry 
a  murderer!" 

There  was  silence,  in  which  all  five  listened  to  that 
wild  moaning  of  the  storm.  There  seemed  to  be 
something  in  it  now — something  more  than  the  inar 
ticulate  sound  of  wind  and  trees.  Forsythe 
scratched  a  match  and  relighted  his  cigar. 

"I  never  thought  of  such  things  in  just  that  light," 
lie  said. 

' '  Listen  to  the  wind, ' 9  said  the  little  priest.  *  *  Hear 
the  pine-trees  shriek  out  there!  It  recalls  to  me  a 
night  of  years  and  years  ago — a  night  like  this, 
when  the  storm,  moaned  and  twisted  about  my  little 
cabin,  and  when  the  Supreme  Arbiter  sent  me  my 
first  penitent.  Gentlemen,  it  is  something  which 
will  bring  you  nearer  to  an  understanding  of  the 
voice  and  the  hand  of  God.  It  is  a  sermon  on  the 
mighty  significance  of  little  things,  this  story  of  my 
first  penitent.  If  you  wish,  I  will  tell  it  to  you." 

"Go  on,"  said  Forsythe. 

The  traveling  men  drew  nearer. 


HIS   FIRST   PENITENT  213 

"It  was  a  night  like  this,"  repeated  Father 
Charles,  "and  it  was  in  a  great  wilderness  like  this, 
only  miles  and  miles  away.  I  had  been  sent  to  estab 
lish  a  mission;  and  in  my  cabin,  that  wild  night, 
alone  and  with  the  storm  shrieking  about  me,  I  was 
busy  at  work  sketching  out  my  plans.  After  a  time 
I  grew  nervous.  I  did  not  smoke  then,  and  so  I 
had  nothing  to  comfort  me  but  my  thoughts;  and, 
in  spite  of  my  efforts  to  make  them  otherwise,  they 
were  cheerless  enough.  The  forest  grew  to  my  door. 
In  the  fiercer  blasts  I  could  hear  the  lashing  of  the 
pine-trees  over  my  head,  and  now  and  then  an  arm 
of  one  of  the  moaning  trees  would  reach  down  and 
sweep  across  my  cabin  roof  with  a  sound  that  made 
me  shudder  and  fear.  This  wilderness  fear  is  an 
oppressive  and  terrible  thing  when  you  are  alone 
at  night,  and  the  world  is  twisting  and  tearing  itself 
outside.  I  have  heard  the  pine-trees  shriek  like 
dying  women,  I  have  heard  them  wailing  like  lost 
children,  I  have  heard  them  sobbing  and  moaning 
like  human  souls  writhing  in  agony " 

Father  Charles  paused,  to  peer  through  the  win 
dow  out  into  the  black  night,  where  the  pine-trees 
were  sobbing  and  moaning  now.  When  he  turned, 
Forsythe,  the  timber  agent,  whose  life  was  a  wilder 
ness  life,  nodded  understandingly. 

"And  when  they  cry  like  that,"  went  on  Father 
Charles,  "a  living  voice  would  be  lost  among  them 
as  the  splash  of  a  pebble  is  lost  in  the  roaring  sea. 
A  hundred  times  that  night  I  fancied  that  I  heard 
human  voices ;  and  a  dozen  times  I  went  to  my  door, 


214          BACK   TO   GOD'S    COUNTRY 

drew  back  the  bolt,  and  listened,  with  the  snow  and 
the  wind  beating  about  my  ears. 

"As  I  sat  shuddering  before  my  fire,  there  came 
a  thought  to  me  of  a  story  which  I  had  long  ago 
read  about  the  sea — a  story  of  impossible  achieve 
ment  and  of  impossible  heroism.  As  vividly  as  if 
I  had  read  it  only  the  day  before,  I  recalled  the 
description  of  a  wild  and  stormy  night  when  the 
heroine  placed  a  lighted  lamp  in  the  window  of  her 
sea-bound  cottage,  to  guide  her  lover  home  in  safety. 
Gentlemen,  the  reading  of  that  book  in  my  boyhood 
days  was  but  a  trivial  thing.  I  had  read  a  thou 
sand  others,  and  of  them  all  it  was  possibly  the 
least  significant;  but  the  Supreme  Arbiter  had  not 
forgotten. 

' i  The  memory  of  that  book  brought  me  to  my  feet, 
and  I  placed  a  lighted  lamp  close  up  against  my 
cabin  window.  Fifteen  minutes  later  I  heard  a 
strange  sound  at  the  door,  and  when  I  opened  it 
there  fell  in  upon  the  floor  at  my  feet  a  young  and 
beautiful  woman.  And  after  her,  dragging  himself 
over  the  threshold  on  his  hands  and  knees,  there 
came  a  man. 

"I  closed  the  door,  after  the  man  had  crawled  in 
and  fallen  face  downward  upon  the  floor,  and  turned 
my  attention  first  to  the  woman.  She  was  covered 
with  snow.  Her  long,  beautiful  hair  was  loose  and 
disheveled,  and  had  blown  about  her  like  a  veil.  Her 
big,  dark  eyes  looked  at  me  pleadingly,  and  in  them 
there  was  a  terror  such  as  I  had  never  beheld  in 
human  eyes  before.  I  bent  over  her,  intending  4o 


HIS   FIRST   PENITENT  215 

carry  her  to  my  cot ;  but  in  another  moment  she  had 
thrown  herself  upon  the  prostrate  form  of  the  man, 
with  her  arms  about  his  head,  and  there  burst  from 
her  lips  the  first  sounds  that  she  had  uttered.  They 
were  not  much  more  intelligible  than  the  wailing 
grief  of  the  pine-trees  out  in  the  night,  but  they 
told  me  plainly  enough  that  the  man  on  the  floor 
was  dearer  to  her  than  life. 

"I  knelt  beside  him,  and  found  that  he  was  breath 
ing  in  a  quick,  panting  sort  of  way,  and  that  his 
wide-open  eyes  were  looking  at  the  woman.  Then 
I  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  his  face  was  cut 
and  bruised,  and  his  lips  were  swollen.  His  coat 
was  loose  at  the  throat,  and  I  could  see  livid  marks 
on  his  neck. 

"  'I'm  all  right,'  he  whispered,  struggling  for 
breath,  and  turning  his  eyes  to  me.  'We  should  have 
died — in  a  few  minutes  more — if  it  hadn't  been  for 
the  light  in  your  window!* 

"The  young  woman  bent  down  and  kissed  him,  and 
then  she  allowed  me  to  help  her  to  my  cot.  When 
I  had  attended  to  the  young  man,  and  he  had  re 
gained  strength  enough  to  stand  upon  his  feet,  she 
was  asleep.  The  man  went  to  her,  and  dropped  upon 
his  knees  beside  the  cot.  Tenderly  he  drew  back 
the  heavy  masses  of  hair  from  about  her  face  and 
shoulders.  For  several  minutes  he  remained  with 
his  face  pressed  close  against  hers;  then  he  rose, 
and  faced  me.  The  woman — his  wife — knew  nothing 
of  what  passed  between  us  during  the  next  half- 
hour.  During  that  half -hour  gentlemen,  I  received 


216          BACK   TO   GOD'S    COUNTEY 

my  first  confession.  The  young  man  was  of  my 
faith.  He  was  my  first  penitent/' 

It  was  growing  colder  in  the  coach,  and  Father 
Charles  stopped  to  draw  his  thin  black  coat  closer 
to  him.  Forsythe  relighted  his  cigar  for  the  third 
time.  The  transient  passenger  gave  a  sudden  start 
as  a  gust  of  wind  beat  against  the  window  like  a 
threatening  hand. 

"A  rough  stool  was  my  confessional,  gentlemen," 
resumed  Father  Charles.  "He  told  me  the  story, 
kneeling  at  my  feet — a  story  that  will  live  with  me 
as  long  as  I  live,  always  reminding  me  that  the  little 
things  of  life  may  be  the  greatest  things,  that  by 
sending  a  storm  to  hold  up  a  coach  the  Supreme  Ar 
biter  may  change  the  map  of  the  world.  It  is  not  a 
long  story.  It  is  not  even  an  unusual  story. 

"He  had  come  into  the  North  about  a  year  before, 
and  had  built  for  himself  and  his  wife  a  little  home 
at  a  pleasant  river  spot  ten  miles  distant  from  my 
cabin.  Their  love  was  of  the  kind  we  do  not  often 
see,  and  they  were  as  happy  as  the  birds  that  lived 
about  them  in  the  wilderness.  They  had  taken  a 
timber  claim.  A  few  months  more,  and  a  new  life 
was  to  come  into  their  little  home;  and  the  knowl 
edge  of  this  made  the  girl  an  angel  of  beauty  and 
joy.  Their  nearest  neighbor  was  another  man,  sev 
eral  miles  distant.  The  two  men  became  friends, 
and  the  other  came  over  to  see  them  frequently.  It 
was  the  old,  old  story.  The  neighbor  fell  in  love 
with  the  young  settler's  wife. 

"As  you  shall  see,  this  other  man  was  a  beast 


HIS   FIRST   PENITENT  217' 

On  the  day  preceding  the  night  of  the  terrible  storm, 
the  woman's  husband  set  out  for  the  settlement  to 
bring  back  supplies.  Hardly  had  he  gone,  when  the 
beast  came  to  the  cabin.  He  found  himself  alone 
with  the  woman. 

"A  mile  from  his  cabin,  the  husband  stopped  to 
light  his  pipe.  See,  gentlemen,  how  the  Supreme 
Arbiter  played  His  hand.  The  man  attempted  to 
unscrew  the  stem,  and  the  stem  broke.  In  the  wilder 
ness  you  must  smoke.  Smoke  is  your  company.  It 
is  voice  and  companionship  to  you.  There  were 
other  pipes  at  the  settlement,  ten  miles  away;  but 
there  was  also  another  pipe  at  the  cabin,  one  mile 
away.  So  the  husband  turned  back.  He  came  up 
quietly  to  his  door,  thinking  that  he  would  surprise 
his  wife.  He  heard  voices — a  man 's  voice,  a  woman 's 
cries.  He  opened  the  door,  and  in  the  excitement  of 
what  was  happening  within  neither  the  man  nor  the 
woman  saw  nor  heard  him.  They  were  struggling. 
The  woman  was  in  the  man's  arms,  her  hair  torn 
down,  her  small  hands  beating  him  in  the  face,  her 
breath  coming  in  low,  terrified  cries.  Even  as  the 
husband  stood  there  for  the  fraction  of  a  second, 
taking  in  the  terrible  scene,  the  other  man  caught 
the  woman's  face  to  him,  and  kissed  her.  And  then 
— it  happened. 

' '  It  was  a  terrible  fight ;  and  when  it  was  over  the 
beast  lay  on  the  floor,  bleeding  and  dead.  Gentle 
men,  the  Supreme  Arbiter  broke  a  pipe-stem,  and 
sent  the  husband  back  in  time!" 

No  one  spoke  as  Father  Charles  drew  his  coat 


218          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

still  closer  about  him.  Above  the  tumult  of  the 
storm  another  sound  came  to  them — the  distant, 
piercing  shriek  of  a  whistle. 

1 '  The  husband  dug  a  grave  through'  the  snow  and 
in  the  frozen  earth,"  concluded  Father  Charles; 
"and  late  that  afternoon  they  packed  up  a  bundle 
and  set  out  together  for  the  settlement.  The  storm 
overtook  them.  They  had  dropped  for  the  last  time 
into  the  snow,  about  to  die  in  each  other's  arms, 
when  I  put  my  light  in  the  window.  That  is  all; 
except  that  I  knew  them  for  several  years  after 
ward,  and  that  the  old  happiness  returned  to  them 
— and  more,  for  the  child  was  born,  a  miniature  of 
its  mother.  Then  they  moved  to  another  part  of  the 
wilderness,  and  I  to  still  another.  So  you  see,  gen 
tlemen,  what  a  snow-bound  train  may  mean,  for  if 
an  old  sea  tale,  a  broken  pipe-stem — 

The  door  at  the  end  of  the  smoking-room  opened 
suddenly.  Through  it  there  came  a  cold  blast  of  the 
storm,  a  cloud  of  snow,  and  a  man.  He  was  bundled 
in  a  great  bearskin  coat,  and  as  he  shook  out  its  folds 
his  strong,  ruddy  face  smiled  cheerfully  at  those 
wiiom  he  had  interrupted. 

Then,  suddenly,  there  came  a  change  in  his  face. 
The  merriment  went  from  it.  He  stared  at  Father 
Charles.  The  priest  was  rising,  his  face  more  tense 
and  whiter  still,  his  hands  reaching  out  to  the 
stranger. 

In  another  moment  the  stranger  had  leaped  to  him 
— not  to  shake  his  hands,  but  to  clasp  the  priest  in 
his  great  arms,  shaking  him,  and  crying  out  a  strange 


HIS   FIRST   PENITENT  219 

joy,  while  for  the  first  time  that  night  the  pale  face 
of  Father  Charles  was  lighted  up  with  a  red  and 
joyous  glow. 

After  several  minutes  the  newcomer  released 
Father  Charles,  and  turned  to  the  others  with  a 
great  hearty  laugh. 

" Gentlemen, "  he  said,  "you  must  pardon  me  for 
interrupting  you  like  this.  You  will  understand 
when  I  tell  you  that  Father  Charles  is  an  old  friend 
of  mine,  the  dearest  friend  I  have  on  earth,  and  that 
I  haven't  seen  him  for  years.  I  was  his  first  peni 
tent  !" 


PETER  GOD 

PETER  GOD  was  a  trapper.  He  set  his  deadfalls  and 
fox-baits  along  the  edge  of  that  long,  slim  finger  of 
the  Great  Barren,  which  reaches  out  of  the  East  well 
into  the  country  of  the  Great  Bear,  far  to  the  West. 
The  door  of  his  sapling-built  cabin  opened  to  the 
dark  and  chilling  gray  of  the  Arctic  Circle ;  through 
its  one  window  he  could  watch  the  sputter  and  play 
of  the  Northern  Lights ;  and  the  curious  hissing  purr 
of  the  Aurora  had  grown  to  be  a  monotone  in  his 
ears. 

Whence  Peter  God  had  come,  and  how  it  was  that 
he  bore  the  strange  name  by  which  he  went,  no  man 
had  asked,  for  curiosity  belongs  to  the  white  man, 
and  the  nearest  white  men  were  up  at  Fort  Mac- 
Pherson,  a  hundred  or  so  miles  away. 

Six  or  seven  years  ago  Peter  God  had  come  to 
the  post  for  the  first  time  with  his  furs.  He  had 
given  his  name  as  Peter  God,  and  the  Company 
had  not  questioned  it,  or  wondered.  Stranger 
names  than  Peter's  were  a  part  of  the  Northland; 
stranger  faces  than  his  came  in  out  of  the  white 
wilderness  trails ;  but  none  was  more  silent,  or  came 
in  and  went  more  quickly.  In  the  gray  of  the  after 
noon  he  drove  in  with  his  dogs  and  his  furs ;  night 

220 


PETER   GOD  221 

would  see  him  on  his  way  back  to  the  Barrens,  sup 
plies  for  another  three  months  of  loneliness  on  his 
sledge. 

It  would  have  been  hard  to  judge  his  age — had  one 
taken  the  trouble  to  try.  Perhaps  he  was  thirty- 
eight.  He  surely  was  not  French.  There  was  no 
Indian  blood  in  him.  His  heavy  beard  was  reddish, 
his  long  thick  hair  distinctly  blond,  and  his  eyes 
were  a  bluish-gray. 

For  seven  years,  season  after  season,  the  Hud 
son's  Bay  Company's  clerk  had  written  items  some 
thing  like  the  following  in  his  record-books : 

Feb.  17.  Peter  God  came  in  to-day  with 
his  furs.  He  leaves  this  afternoon  or  to 
night  for  his  trapping  grounds  with  fresh 
supplies. 

The  year  before,  in  a  momentary  fit  of  curiosity, 
the  clerk  had  added : 

Curious  why  Peter  God  never  stays  in 
Fort  MacPherson  overnight. 

'And  more  curious  than  this  was  the  fact  that  Peter 
God  never  asked  for  mail,  and  no  letter  ever  came 
to  Fort  MacPherson  for  him. 

The  Great  Barren  enveloped  him  and  his  mystery. 
The  yapping  foxes  knew  more  of  him  than  men. 
They  knew  him  for  a  hundred  miles  up  and  down 
that  white  finger  of  desolation ;  they  knew  the  peril 


222 

of  his  baits  and  his  deadfalls;  they  snarled  and 
barked  their  hatred  and  defiance  at  the  glow  of  his 
lights  on  dark  nights ;  they  watched  for  him,  sniffed 
for  signs  of  him,  and  walked  into  his  clever  death- 
pits. 

The  foxes  and  Peter  God!  That  was  what  this 
white  world  was  made  up  of — foxes  and  Peter  God. 
It  was  a  world  of  strife  between  them.  Peter  God 
was  killing — but  the  foxes  were  winning.  Slowly 
but  surely  they  were  breaking  him  down — they  and 
the  terrible  loneliness.  Loneliness  Peter  God  might 
have  stood  for  many  more  years.  But  the  foxes 
were  driving  him  mad.  More  and  more  he  had  come 
to  dread  their  yapping  at  night.  That  was  the  deadly 
combination — night  and  the  yapping.  In  the  day 
time  he  laughed  at  himself  for  his  fears ;  nights  he 
sweated,  and  sometimes  wanted  to  scream. 

What  manner  of  man  Peter  God  was  or  might 
have  been,  and  of  the  strangeness  of  the  life  that 
was  lived  in  the  maddening  loneliness  of  that  mys 
tery-cabin  in  the  edge  of  the  Barren,  only  one  other 
man  knew. 

That  was  Philip  Curtis. 

Two  thousand  miles  south,  Philip  Curtis  sat  at  a 
small  table  in  a  brilliantly  lighted  and  fashionable 
cafe.  It  was  early  June,  and  Philip  had  been  down 
from  the  North  scarcely  a  month,  the  deep  tan  was 
still  in  his  face,  and  tiny  wind  and  snow  lines  crinkled 
at  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  He  exuded  the  life  of  the 
(big  outdoors  as  he  sat  opposite  pallid-cheeked  and 


PETER   GOD  223 

weak-chested  Barrow,  the  Mica  King,  who  would 
have  given  his  millions  to  possess  the  red  blood  in 
the  other's  veins. 

Philip  had  made  his  "strike,"  away  up  on  the 
Mackenzie.  That  day  he  had  sold  out  to  Barrow  for 
a  hundred  thousand.  To-night  he  was  filled  with 
the  flush  of  joy  and  triumph. 

Barrow's  eyes  shone  with  a  new  sort  of  enthusiasm 
as  he  listened  to  this  man's  story  of  grim  and  fight 
ing  determination  that  had  led  to  the  discovery  of 
that  mountain  of  mica  away  up  on  the  Clearwater 
Bulge.  He  looked  upon  the  other's  strength,  his 
bronzed  face  and  the  glory  of  achievement  in  his 
eyes,  and  a  great  and  yearning  hopelessness  burned 
like  a  dull  fire  in  his  heart.  He  was  no  older  than 
the  man  who  sat  on  the  other  side  of  the  table — per 
haps  thirty-five;  yet  what  a  vast  gulf  lay  between 
them!  He  with  his  millions;  the  other  with  that 
flood  of  red  blood  coming  and  going  in  his  body,  and 
his  wonderful  fortune  of  a  hundred  thousand! 

Barrow  leaned  a  little  over  the  table,  and  laughed. 
It  was  the  laugh  of  a  man  who  had  grown  tired  of 
life,  in  spite  of  his  millions.  Day  before  yesterday 
a  famous  specialist  had  warned  him  that  the  threads 
of  his  life  were  giving  way,  one  by  one.  He  told 
this  to  Curtis.  He  confessed  to  him,  with  that 
strange  glow  in  his  eyes, — a  glow  that  was  like  mak 
ing  a  last  fight  against  total  extinguishment, — that 
he  would  give  up  his  millions  and  all  he  had  won 
for  the  other 's  health  and  the  mountain  of  mica, 

"And  if  it  came  to  a  close  bargain,"  he  said,  "I 


224          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTEY 


wouldn't  hold  out  for  the  mountain.  I'm  ready  tc 
quit — and  it's  too  late." 

Which,  after  a  little,  brought  Philip  Curtis  to  tell 
so  much  as  he  knew  of  the  story  of  Peter  God. 

Philip's  voice  was  tuned  with  the  winds  and  the 
forests.  It  rose  above  the  low  and  monotonous  hum 
about  them.  People  at  the  two  or  three  adjoining 
tables  might  have  heard  his  story,  if  they  had 
listened.  Within  the  immaculateness  of  his  evening 
dress,  Barrows  shivered,  fearing  that  Curtis'  voice 
might  attract  undue  attention  to  them.  But  other 
people  were  absorbed  in  themselves.  Philip  went 
on  with  his  story,  and  at  last,  so  clearly  that  it 
reached  easily  to  the  other  tables,  he  spoke  the  name 
of  Peter  God. 

Then  came  the  interruption,  and  with  that  inter 
ruption  a  strange  and  sudden  upheaval  in  the  life 
of  Philip  Curtis  that  was  to  mean  more  to  him  than 
the  discovery  of  the  mica  mountain.  His  eyes  swept 
over  Barrow's  shoulder,  and  there  he  saw  a  woman. 
She  was  standing.  A  low,  stifled  cry  had  broken 
from  her  almost  simultaneously  with  his  first 
glimpse  of  her,  and  as  he  looked,  Philip  saw  her  lips 
form  gaspingly  the  name  he  had  spoken — Peter 
God! 

She  was  so  near  that  Barrow  could  have  turned 
and  touched  her.  Her  eyes  were  like  luminous  fires 
as  she  stared  at  Philip.  Her  face  was  strangely 
pale.  He  could  see  her  quiver,  and  catch  her  breath. 
And  she  was  looking  at  him.  For  that  one  moment 
she  had  forgotten  the  presence  of  others. 


PETER   GOD  225 

Then  a  hand  touched  her  arm.  It  was  the  hand 
of  her  elderly  escort,  in  whose  face  were  anxiety  and 
wonder.  The  woman  started  and  took  her  eyes  from 
Philip.  With  her  escort  she  seated  herself  at  a  table 
a  few  paces  away,  and  for  a  few  moments  Philip 
could  see  she  was  fighting  for  composure,  and  that 
it  cost  her  a  struggle  to  keep  her  eyes  from  turning 
in  his  direction  while  she  talked  in  a  low  voice  to 
her  companion. 

Philip's  heart  was  pounding  like  an  engine.  He 
knew  that  she  was  talking  about  him  now,  and  he 
knew  that  she  had  cried  out  when  he  had  spoken 
Peter  God's  name.  He  forgot  Barrow  as  he  looked 
at  her.  She  was  exquisite,  even  with  that  gray 
pallor  that  had  come  so  suddenly  into  her  cheeks. 
She  was  not  young,  as  the  age  of  youth  is  measured. 
Perhaps  she  was  thirty,  or  thirty-two,  or  thirty-five. 
If  some  one  had  asked  Philip  to  describe  her,  he 
would  have  said  simply  that  she  was  glorious.  Yet 
her  entrance  had  caused  no  stir.  Few  had  looked 
at  her  until  she  had  uttered  that  sharp  cry.  There 
were  a  score  of  women  under  the  brilliantly  lighted 
chandeliers  possessed  of  more  spectacular  beauty. 

Barrow  had  partly  turned  in  his  seat,  and  now, 
with  careful  breeding,  he  faced  his  companion 
again. 

"Do  you  know  her?"  Philip  asked. 

Barrow  shook  his  head. 

"No."  Then  he  added:  "Did  you  see  what  made 
her  cry  out  like  that?" 

*'I  believe  so,"  said  Philip,  and  he  turned  pnr- 


226          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

posely  so  that  the  four  people  at  the  next  table  could 
hear  him.  "I  think  she  twisted  her  ankle.  It's  an 
occasional  penance  the  women  make  for  wearing 
these  high-heeled  shoes,  you  know." 

He  looked  at  her  again.  Her  form  was  bent 
toward  the  white-haired  man  who  was  with  her.  The 
man  was  staring  straight  over  at  Philip,  a  strange 
searching  look  in  his  face  as  he  listened  to  what  she 
was  saying.  He  seemed  to  question  Philip  through 
the  short  distance  that  separated  them.  And  then 
the  woman  turned  her  head  slowly,  and  once  more 
Philip  met  her  eyes  squarely — deep,  dark,  glowing 
eyes  that  thrilled  him  to  the  quick  of  his  soul.  He 
did  not  try  to  understand  what  he  saw  in  them. 
Before  he  turned  his  glance  to  Barrow  he  saw  that 
color  had  swept  back  into  her  face;  her  lips  were 
parted ;  he  knew  that  she  was  struggling  to  suppress 
a  tremendous  emotion. 

Barrow  was  looking  at  him  curiously — and  Philip 
went  on  with  his  story  of  Peter  God.  He  told  it  in 
a  lower  voice.  Not  until  he  had  finished  did  he  look 
again  in  the  direction  of  the  other  table.  The  woman 
had  changed  her  position  slightly,  so  that  he  could 
not  see  her  face.  The  uptilt  of  her  hat  revealed  to 
him  the  warm  soft  glow  of  shining  coils  of  brown 
liair.  He  was  sure  that  her  escort  was  keeping 
watch  of  his  movements. 

Suddenly  Barrow  drew  his  attention  to  a  man  sit 
ting  alone  a  dozen  tables  from  them. 

"  There's  DeVoe,  one  of  the  Amalgamated 
chiefs,"  he  said.  "He  has  almost  finished,  and  I 


PETER   GOD  227 

want  to  speak  to  him  before  he  leaves.  Will  yon 
excuse  me  a  minute — or  will  you  come  along  and 
meet  him? " 

' 'I'll  wait,"  said  Philip. 

Ten  seconds  later,  the  woman's  white-haired  es 
cort  was  on  his  feet.  He  came  to  Philip's  table,  and 
seated  himself  casually  in  Barrow's  chair,  as  though 
Philip  were  an  old  friend  with  whom  he  had  come  to 
chat  for  a  moment. 

"I  beg  your  pardon  for  the  imposition  which  I 
am  laying  upon  you,"  he  said  in  a  low,  quiet  voice. 
"I  am  Colonel  McCloud.  The  lady  with  me  is  my 
daughter.  And  you,  I  believe,  are  a  gentleman.  If 
I  were  not  sure  of  that,  I  should  not  have  taken 
advantage  of  your  friend's  temporary  absence.  Yon 
heard  my  daughter  cry  out  a  few  moments  ago !  Yon 
observed  that  she  was — disturbed!" 

Philip  nodded. 

"I  could  not  help  it.  I  was  facing  her.  And 
since  then  I  have  thought  that  I — unconsciously — • 
was  the  cause  of  her  perturbation.  I  am  Philip 
Curtis,  Colonel  McCloud,  from  Fort  MacPherson, 
two  thousand  miles  north  of  here,  on  the  Mackenzie 
River.  So  yon  see,  if  it  is  a  case  of  mistaken  iden 
tity " 

''No — no — it  is  not  that,"  interrupted  the  older 
man.  "As  we  were  passing  your  table  we — my 
daughter — heard  you  speak  a  name.  Perhaps  she 
was  mistaken.  It  was — Peter  God." 

"Yes.     I  know  Peter  God.     He  is  a  friend  of 


228          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTBY 

Barrow  was  returning.  The  other  saw  him  over 
Philip's  shoulder,  and  his  voice  trembled  with  a 
sudden  and  subdued  excitement  as  he  said  quickly: 

"Your  friend  is  coming  back.  No  one  but  you 
must  know  that  my  daughter  is  interested  in  this  man 
— Peter  God.  She  trusts  you.  She  sent  me  to  you. 
It  is  important  that  she  should  see  you  to-night  and 
talk  with  you  alone.  I  will  wait  for  you  outside.  I 
will  have  a  taxicab  ready  to  take  you  to  our  apart 
ments.  Will  you  come  ? ' ' 

He  had  risen.  Philip  heard  Barrow's  footsteps 
behind  him. 

"I  will  come,"  he  said. 

A  few  minutes  later  Colonel  McCloud  and  his 
daughter  left  the  cafe.  The  half-hour  after  that 
passed  with  leaden  slowness  to  Philip.  The  for 
tunate  arrival  of  two  or  three  friends  of  Barrow 
gave  him  an  opportunity  to  excuse  himself  on  the 
plea  of  an  important  engagement,  and  he  hade  the 
Mica  King  good-night.  Colonel  McCloud  was  wait 
ing  for  him  outside  the  cafe,  and  as  they  entered 
a  taxicab,  he  said: 

"My  daughter  is  quite  unstrung  to-night,  and  I 
sent  her  home.  She  is  waiting  for  us.  "Will  you 
have  a  smoke,  Mr.  Curtis?" 

With  a  feeling  that  this  night  had  set  stirring  a 
brew  of  strange  and  unforeseen  events  for  him, 
Philip  sat  in  a  softly  lighted  and  richly  furnished 
room  and  waited.  The  Colonel  had  been  gone  a  full 
quarter-hour.  He  had  left  a  box  half  filled  with 
cigars  on  a  table  at  Philip's  elbow,  pressing  him  to 


PETEE   GOD  229 

smoke.  They  "were  an  English  brand  of  cigar,  and 
on  the  box  was  stamped  the  name  of  the  Montreal 
dealer  from  whom  they  had  been  purchased. 

1  'My  daughter  Avill  come  presently,"  Colonel 
McCloud  had  said. 

A  curious  thrill  shot  through  Philip  as  he  heard 
her  footsteps  and  the  soft  swish  of  her  skirt.  In 
voluntarily  he  rose  to  his  feet  as  she  entered  the 
room.  For  fully  ten  seconds  they  stood  facing  each 
other  without  speaking.  She  was  dressed  in  fllmy 
gray  stuff.  There  was  lace  at  her  throat.  She  had 
shifted  the  thick  bright  coils  of  her  hair  to  the  crown 
of  her  head;  a  splendid  glory  of  hair,  he  thought. 
Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  with  her  hands  against 
her  breast,  she  seemed  crushing  back  the  strange 
excitement  that  glowed  in  her  eyes.  Once  he  had 
seen  a  fawn's  eyes  that  looked  like  hers.  In  them 
were  suspense,  fear — a  yearning  that  was~almost 
pain.  Suddenly  she  came  to  him,  her  hands  out 
stretched.  Involuntarily,  too,  he  took  them.  They 
were  warm  and  soft.  They  thrilled  him — and  they 
clung  to  him. 

'  *  I  am  Josephine  McClond,' '  she  said.  ' '  My  father 
has  explained  to  you?  You  know — a  man — who  calls 
himself— God?" 

Her  fingers  clung  more  tightly  to  his,  and  the 
sweetness  of  her  hair,  her  breath,  her  eyes  were  very 
close  as  she  waited. 

"Yes,  I  know  a  man  who  calls  himself  Peter  God/' 

"Tell  me — what  he  is  like?"  she  whispered.  "He 
is  tall — like  you?" 


230          BACK   TO   GOD'S    COUNTRY 

' '  No.    He  is  of  medium  height. ' ' 

"And  his  hair?    It  is  dark — dark  like  yours?" 

"No.    It  is  blond,  and  a  little  gray." 

"And  he  is  young — younger  than  you?" 

"He  is  older." 

"And  his  eyes — are  dark?" 

He  felt  rather  than  heard  the  throbbing  of  her 
heart  as  she  waited  for  him  to  reply.  There  was  a 
reason  why  he  would  never  forget  Peter  God's  eyes. 

"Sometimes  I  thought  they  were  blue,  and  some 
times  gray,"  he  said;  and  at  that  she  dropped  his 
hands  with  a  strange  little  cry,  and  stood  a  step 
back  from  him,  a  joy  which  she  made  no  effort  to 
keep  from  him  flaming  in  her  face. 

It  was  a  look  which  sent  a  sudden  hopelessness 
through  Curtis — a  stinging  pang  of  jealousy.  This 
night  had  set  wild  and  tumultous  emotions  aflame 
in  his  breast.  He  had  come  to  Josephine  McCloud 
like  one  in  a  dream.  In  an  hour  he  had  placed  her 
above  all  other  women  in  the  world,  and  in  that 
hour  the  little  gods  of  fate  had  brought  him  to  his 
knees  in  the  worship  of  a  woman.  The  fact  did  not 
seem  unreal  to  him.  Here  was  the  woman,  and  he 
loved  her.  And  his  heart  sank  like  a  heavily 
weighted  thing  when  he  saw  the  transfiguration  of 
joy  that  came  into  her  face  when  he  said  that  Peter 
God's  eyes  were  not  dark,  but  were  sometimes  blue 
and  sometimes  gray. 

"And  this  Peter  God?"  he  said,  straining  to  make 
his  voice  even.  "What  is  he  to  you?" 

His  question  cut  her  like  a  knife.    The  wild  color 


PETER   GOD  231 

ebbed  swiftly  out  of  her  cheeks.  Into  her  eyes  swept 
a  haunting  fear  which  he  was  to  see  and  wonder 
at  more  than  once.  It  was  as  if  he  had  done  some 
thing  to  frighten  her. 

"We — my  father  and  I — are  interested  in  him," 
she  said.  Her  words  cost  her  a  visible  effort.  He 
noticed  a  quick  throbbing  in  her  throat,  just  above 
the  filmy  lace.  "Mr.  Curtis,  won't  you  pardon  this 
— this  betrayal  of  excitement  in  myself  ?  It  must  be 
unaccountable  to  you.  Perhaps  a  little  later  you 
will  understand.  We  are  imposing  on  you  by  not 
confiding  in  you  what  this  interest  is,  and  I  beg  you 
to  forgive  me.  But  there  is  a  reason.  Will  you 
believe  me?  There  is  a  reason." 

Her  hands  rested  lightly  on  Philip's  arm.  Her 
eyes  implored  him. 

"I  will  not  ask  for  confidences  which  you  are  not 
free  to  give,"  he  said  gently. 

He  was  rewarded  by  a  soft  glow  of  thankfulness. 

"I  cannot  make  you  understand  how  much  that 
means  to  me,"  she  cried  tremblingly.  "And  you 
will  tell  us  about  Peter  God?  Father " 

She  turned. 

Colonel  McCloud  had  reentered  the  room. 

With  the  feeling  of  one  who  was  not  quite  sure 
that  he  was  awake,  Philip  paused  under  a  street 
lamp  ten  minutes  after  leaving  the  McCloud  apart 
ments,  and  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  a  quarter  of 
two  o  'clock.  A  low  whistle  of  surprise  fell  from  his 
lips.  For  three  hours  he  had  been  with  Colonel 


232 

MeCloud  and  his  daughter.  It  had  seemed  like  an 
honr.  He  still  felt  the  thrill  of  the  warm,  parting 
pressure  of  Josephine's  hand;  he  saw  the  gratitude 
in  her  eyes ;  he  heard  her  voice,  low  and  tremulous, 
asking  him  to  come  again  to-morrow  evening.  His 
brain  was  in  a  strange  whirl  of  excitement,  and  he 
laughed — laughed  with  gladness  which  he  had  not 
felt  before  in  all  the  days  of  his  life. 

He  had  told  a  great  many  things  about  Peter  God 
that  night;  of  the  man's  life  in  the  little  cabin,  his 
loneliness,  his  aloofness,  and  the  mystery  of  him. 
Philip  had  asked  no  questions  of  Josephine  and  her 
father,  and  more  than  once  he  had  caught  that  almost 
tender  gratitude  in  Josephine's  eyes.  And  at  least 
twice  he  had  seen  the  swift,  haunting  fear — the  first 
time  when  he  told  of  Peter  God's  coming  and  goings 
at  Fort  MacPherson,  and  again  when  he  mentioned 
a  patrol  of  the  Royal  Northwest  Mounted  Police' 
that  had  passed  Peter  God's  cabin  while  Philip  was 
there,  laid  up  during  those  weeks  of  darkness  and 
storm  with  a  fractured  leg. 

Philip  told  how  tenderly  Peter  God  nursed  him, 
and  how  their  acquaintance  grew  into  brotherhood 
during  the  long  gray  nights  when  the  stars  gleamed 
like  pencil-points  and  the  foxes  yapped  incessantly. 
He  had  seen  the  dewy  shimmer  of  tears  in  Joseph 
ine  's  eyes.  He  had  noted  the  tense  lines  in  Colonel 
McCloud 's  face.  But  he  had  asked  them  no  ques 
tions,  he  had  made  no  effort  to  unmask  the 
secret  which  they  so  evidently  desired  to  keep  from 
him. 


PETER    GOD  233 

Now,  alone  in  the  cool  night,  he  asked  himself  a 
hundred  questions,  and  yet  with  a  feeling  that  he 
understood  a  great  deal  of  what  they  had  kept  from 
him.  Something  had  whispered  to  him  then — and 
whispered  to  him  now — that  Peter  God  was  not  Peter 
God's  right  name,  and  that  to  Josephine  McCloud 
and  her  father  he  was  a  brother  and  a  son.  This 
thought,  so  long  as  he  could  think  it  without  a  doubt, 
filled  his  cup  of  hope  to  overflowing.  But  the  doubt 
persisted.  It  was  like  a  spark  that  refused  to  go 
out.  Who  was  Peter  God?  What  was  Peter  God, 
the  half -wild  fox-hunter,  to  Josephine  McCloud? 
Yes — he  could  be  but  that  one  thing!  A  brother. 
A  black  sheep.  A  wanderer.  A  son  who  had  disap 
peared — and  was  now  found.  But  if  he  was  that, 
only  that,  why  would  they  not  tell  him?  The  doubt 
sputtered  up  again. 

Philip  did  not  go  to  bed.  He  was  anxious  for  the 
day,  and  the  evening  that  was  to  follow.  A  woman 
had  unsettled  his  world.  His  mica  mountain  became 
an  unimportant  reality.  Barrow's  greatness  no 
longer  loomed  up  for  him.  He  walked  until  he  was 
tired,  and  it  was  dawn  when  he  went  to  his  hotel. 

He  was  like  a  boy  living  in  the  anticipation  of  a 
great  promise — restless,  excited,  even  feverishly 
anxious  all  day.  He  made  inquiries  about  Colonel 
James  McCloud  at  his  hotel.  No  one  knew  him,  or 
had  even  heard  of  him.  His  name  was  not  in  the 
city  directory  or  the  telephone  directory.  Philip 
made  up  his  mind  that  Josephine  and  her  father  were 
practically  strangers  in  the  city,  and  that  they  had 


234          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

come  from  Canada — probably  Montreal,  for  he  re 
membered  the  stamp  on  the  box  of  cigars. 

That  night,  when  he  saw  Josephine  again,  he 
wanted  to  reach  out  his  arms  to  her.  He  wanted  to 
make  her  understand  how  completely  his  wonderful 
love  possessed  him,  and  how  utterly  lost  he  was 
without  her.  She  was  dressed  in  simple  white — 
again  with  that  bank  of  filmy  lace  at  her  throat. 
Her  hair  was  done  in  those  lustrous,  shimmering 
coils,  so  bright  and  soft  that  he  would  have  given  a 
tenth  of  his  mica  mountain  to  touch  them  with  his 
hands.  And  she  was  glad  to  see  him.  Her  eagerness 
shone  in  her  eyes,  in  the  warm  flush  of  her  cheeks,  in 
the  joyous  tremble  of  her  voice. 

That  night,  too,  passed  like  a  dream — a  dream  in 
paradise  for  Philip.  For  a  long  time  they  sat  alone, 
and  Josephine  herself  brought  him  the  box  of  cigars, 
and  urged  him  to  smoke.  They  talked  again  about 
the  North,  about  Fort  MacPherson — where  it  was, 
what  it  was,  and  how  one  got  to  it  through  a  thou 
sand  miles  or  so  of  wilderness.  He  told  her  of  his 
own  adventures,  how  for  many  years  he  had  sought 
for  mineral  treasure  and  at  last  had  found  a  mica 
mountain. 

"It's  close  to  Fort  MacPherson,"  he  explained. 
"We  can  work  it  from  the  Mackenzie.  I  expect  to 
start  back  some  time  in  August." 

She  leaned  toward  him,  last  night's  strange  ex 
citement  glowing  for  the  first  time  in  her  eyes. 

"You  are  going  back?    You  will  see  Peter  God?" 

In  her  eagerness  she  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm. 


PETER   GOD  235 

"I  am  going  back.  It  would  be  possible  to  see 
Peter  God." 

The  touch  of  her  hand  did  not  lighten  the  weight 
that  was  tugging  again  at  his  heart. 

"Peter  God's  cabin  is  a  hundred  miles  from  Fort 
MacPherson,"  he  added.  "He  will  be  hunting 
foxes  by  the  time  I  get  there." 

"You  mean — it  will  be  winter." 

"Yes.  It  is  a  long  journey.  And" — he  was  look 
ing  at  her  closely  as  he  spoke — "Peter  God  may  not 
be  there  when  I  return.  It  is  possible  he  may  have 
gone  into  another  part  of  the  wilderness." 

He  saw  her  quiver  as  she  drew  back. 

"He  has  been  there — for  seven — years,"  she  said, 
as  if  speaking  to  herself.  "He  would  not  move — 
now ! ' ' 

"No;  I  don't  think  he  would  move  now." 

His  own  voice  was  low,  scarcely  above  a  whisper, 
and  she  looked  at  him  quickly  and  strangely,  a  flush 
in  her  cheeks. 

It  was  late  when  he  bade  her  good-night.  Again 
he  felt  the  warm  thrill  of  her  hand  as  it  lay  in  his. 
The  next  afternoon  he  was  to  take  her  driving. 

The  days  and  weeks  that  followed  these  first  meet 
ings  with  Josephine  McCloud  were  weighted  with 
many  things  for  Philip.  Neither  she  nor  her  father 
enlightened  him  about  Peter  God.  Several  times  he 
believed  that  Josephine  was  on  the  point  of  con 
fiding  in  him,  but  each  time  there  came  that  strange 
fear  in  her  eyes,  and  she  caught  herself. 


296  BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

Philip  did  not  nrge.  He  asked  no  questions  that 
might  be  embarrassing.  He  knew,  after  the  third 
week  had  passed,  that  Josephine  could  no  longer 
be  unconscious  of  his  love,  even  though  the  mystery 
of  Peter  God  restrained  him  from  making  a  declara 
tion  of  it.  There  was  not  a  day  in  the  week  that 
they  did  not  see  each  other.  They  rode  together. 
The  three  frequently  dined  together.  And  still  more 
frequently  they  passed  the  evenings  in  the  McCloud 
apartments.  Philip  had  been  correct  in  his  guess — 
they  were  from  Montreal.  Beyond  that  fact  he 
learned  little. 

As  their  acquaintance  became  closer  and  as 
Josephine  saw  in  Philip  more  and  more  of  that  some 
thing  which  he  had  not  spoken,  a  change  developed 
in  her.  At  first  it  puzzled  and  then  alarmed  him. 
At  times  she  seemed  almost  frightened.  One  even 
ing,  when  his  love  all  but  trembled  on  his  lips,  she 
turned  suddenly  white. 

It  was  the  middle  of  July  before  the  words  came 
from  him  at  last.  In  two  or  three  weeks  he  was 
starting  for  the  North.  It  was  evening,  and  they 
were  alone  in  the  big  room,  with  the  cool  breeze  from 
the  lake  drifting  in  upon  them.  He  made  no  effort 
to  touch  her  as  he  told  her  of  his  love,  but  when 
he  had  done,  she  knew  that  a  strong  man  had  laid 
his  heart  and  his  soul  at  her  feet. 

He  had  never  seen  her  whiter.  Her  hands  were 
clasped  tightly  in  her  lap.  There  was  a  silence  in 
which  he  did  not  breathe.  Her  answer  came  so  low 
that  he  leaned  forward  to  hear. 


PETER   GOD  237 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said.  "It  is  my  fault — that 
yon  love  me.  I  knew.  And  yet  I  let  you  come  again 
and  again.  I  have  done  wrong.  It  is  not  fair — now 
— for  me  to  tell  you  to  go — without  a  chance.  You 
would  want  me  if  I  did  not  love  you?  You  would 
marry  me  if  I  did  not  love  you?" 

His  heart  pounded.  He  forgot  everything  but 
that  he  loved  this  woman  with  a  love  beyond  his 
power  to  reason. 

"I  don't  think  that  I  could  live  without  you  now, 
Josephine,"  he  cried  in  a  low  voice.  "And  I  swear 
to  make  you  love  me.  It  must  come.  It  is  incon 
ceivable  that  I  cannot  make  you  love  me — loving  you 
as  I  do." 

Shn  looked  at  him  clearly  now.  She  seemed  sud 
denly  to  become  tense  and  vibrant  with  a  new  and 
wonderful  strength. 

"I  must  be  fair  with  you,"  she  said.  "You  are  a 
man  whose  love  most  women  would  be  proud  to  pos 
sess.  And  yet — it  is  not  in  my  power  to  accept  that 
love,  or  give  myself  to  you.  There  is  another  to 
whom  you  must  go." 

"And  that  is " 

"Peter  God!" 

It  was  she  who  leaned  forward  now,  her  eyes  burn- 
ing,  her  bosom  rising  and  falling  with  the  quickness 
of  her  breath. 

"You  must  go  to  Peter  God,"  sHe  said.  "You 
must  take  a  letter  to  him — from  me.  And  it  will  be 
for  him — for  Peter  God — to  say  whether  I  am  to  be 
your  wife.  You  are  honorable.  You  will  be  fair 


238 

with  me.  You  will  take  the  letter  to  him.  And  I 
will  be  fair  with  you.  I  will  be  your  wife,  I  will  try 
hard  to  care  for  you — if  Peter  God — says " 

Her  voice  broke.  She  covered  her  face,  and  for  a 
moment,  too  stunned  to  speak,  Philip  looked  at  her 
while  her  slender  form  trembled  with  sobs.  She  had 
'bowed  her  head,  and  for  the  first  time  he  reached 
out  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the  soft  glory  of  her  hair^ 
Its  touch  set  aflame  every  fiber  in  him.  Hope  swept 
through  him,  crushing  his  fears  like  a  juggernaut. 
It  would  be  a  simple  task  to  go  to  Peter  God!  He 
was  tempted  to  take  her  in  his  arms.  A  moment 
more,  and  he  would  have  caught  her  to  him,  but  the 
weight  of  his  hand  on  her  head  roused  her,  and  she 
raised  her  face,  and  drew  back.  His  arms  were 
reaching  out.  She  saw  what  was  in  his  eyes. 

"Not  now,"  she  said.  "Not  until  you  have  gone 
to  him.  Nothing  in  the  world  will  be  too  great  a 
reward  for  you  if  you  are  fair  with  me,  for  you  are 
taking  a  chance.  In  the  end  you  may  receive  noth 
ing.  For  if  Peter  Gods  says  that  I  cannot  be  your 
wife,  I  cannot.  He  must  be  the  arbiter.  On  those 
conditions,  will  you  go  I" 

"Yes,  I  will  go,"  said  Philip. 

It  was  early  in  August  when  Philip  reached  Ed 
monton.  From  there  he  took  the  new  line  of  rail 
to  Athabasca  Landing;  it  was  September  when  he 
arrived  at  Fort  McMurray  and  found  Pierre  Gra- 
vois,  a  half-breed,  who  was  to  accompany  him  by 
canoe  up  to  Fort  MacPherson.  Before  leaving  this 


PETER   GOD  239 

final  outpost,  whence  the  real  journey  into  the  North- 
began,  Philip  sent  a  long  letter  to  Josephine. 

Two  days  after  he  and  Pierre  had  started  down 
the  Mackenzie,  a  letter  came  to  Fort  McMurray  for 
Philip.  "Long'*  La  Brie,  a  special  messenger, 
brought  it  from  Athabasca  Landing.  He  was  too 
late,  and  he  had  no  instructions — and  had  not  been 
paid — to  go  farther. 

Day  after  day  Philip  continued  steadily  north 
ward.  He  carried  Josephine's  letter  to  Peter  God 
in  his  breast  pocket,  securely  tied  in  a  little  water 
proof  bag.  It  was  a  thick  letter,  and  time  and  again 
he  held  it  in  his  hand,  and  wondered  why  it  was  that 
Josephine  could  have  so  much  to  say  to  the  lonely 
fox-hunter  up  on  the  edge  of  the  Barren. 

One  night,  as  he  sat  alone  by  their  fire  in  the  chill 
of  September  darkness,  he  took  the  letter  from  its 
sack  and  saw  that  the  contents  of  the  bulging  en 
velope  had  sprung  one  end  of  the  flap  loose.  Before 
he  went  to  bed  Pierre  had  set  a  pail  of  water  on  the 
coals.  A  cloud  of  steam  was  rising  from  it.  Those 
two  things — the  steam  and  the  loosened  flap — sent  a 
thrill  through  Philip.  "What  was  in  the  letter? 
"What  had  Josephine  McCloud  written  to  Peter  God  ? 

He  looked  toward  sleeping  Pierre;  the  pail  of 
wTater  began  to  bubble  and  sing — he  drew  a  tense 
breath,  and  rose  to  his  feet.  In  thirty  seconds  the 
steam  rising  from  the  pail  would  free  the  rest  of 
the  flap.  He  could  read  the  letter,  and  reseal  it. 
Neither  Josephine  nor  Peter  God  would  ever  know! 

And  then,  like  a  ehock,  came  the  thought  of  the 


240          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

few  notes  Josephine  had  written  to  him.  On  each 
of  them  she  had  never  failed  to  stamp  her  seal  in  a 
lavender-colored  wax.  He  had  observed  that  Colonel 
McCloud  always  used  a  seal,  in  bright  red.  On  this 
letter  to  Peter  God  there  was  no  seal !  She  trusted 
him.  Her  faith  was  implicit.  And  this  was  her 
proof  of  it.  Under  his  breath  he  laughed,  and  his 
heart  grew  warm  with  new  happiness  and  hope.  "I 
have  faith  in  you,"  she  had  said,  at  parting;  and 
now,  again,  out  of  the  letter  her  voice  seemed  to 
whisper  to  him,  "I  have  faith  in  you." 

He  replaced  the  letter  in  its  sack,  and  crawled  be 
tween  his  blankets  close  to  Pierre. 

That  night  had  seen  the  beginning  of  his  struggle 
frith  himself.  This  year,  autumn  and  winter  came 
early  in  the  North  country.  It  was  to  be  a  winter  of 
terrible  cold,  of  deep  snow,  of  famine  and  pestilence 
— the  winter  of  1910.  The  first  oppressive  gloom  of 
it  added  to  the  fear  and  suspense  that  began  to  grow 
in  Philip. 

For  days  there  was  no  sign  of  the  sun.  The 
clouds  hung  low.  Bitter  winds  came  out  of  the 
North,  and  nights  these  winds  wailed  desolately 
through  the  tops  of  the  spruce  under  which  they 
slept.  And  day  after  day  and  night  after  night  the 
temptation  came  upon  him  more  strongly  to  open 
the  letter  he  was  carrying  to  Peter  God. 

He  was  convinced  now  that  the  letter — and  the 
letter  alone — held  his  fate,  and  that  he  was  acting 
blindly.  Was  this  justice  to  himself?  He  wanted 
Josephine.  He  wanted  her  above  all  else  in  the 


PETER   GOD  241 

world.  Then  why  should  he  not  fight  for  her — in  his 
own  way?  And  to  do  that  he  must  read  the  letter. 
To  know  its  contents  would  mean — Josephine.  If 
there  was  nothing  in  it  that  would  stand  between 
them,  he  would  have  done  no  wrong,  for  he  would 
still  take  it  on  to  Peter  God.  So  he  argued.  But 
if  the  letter  jeopardized  his  chances  of  possessing 
her,  his  knowledge  of  what  it  contained  would  give 
him  an  opportunity  to  win  in  another  way.  He  could 
even  answer  it  himself  and  take  back  to  her  false 
word  from  Peter  God,  for  seven  frost-biting  years 
along  the  edge  of  the  Barren  had  surely  changed 
Peter  God's  handwriting.  His  treachery,  if  it  could 
be  called  that,  would  never  be  discovered.  And  it 
would  give  him  Josephine. 

This  was  the  temptation.  The  power  that  resisted 
it  was  the  spirit  of  that  big,  clean,  fighting  North 
which  makes  men  out  of  a  beginning  of  flesh  and 
bone.  Ten  years  of  that  North  had  seeped  into 
Philip's  being.  He  hung  on.  It  was  November 
when  he  reached  Fort  MacPherson,  and  he  had  not 
opened  the  letter. 

Deep  snowd  fell,  and  fierce  blizzards  shot  like  gun- 
blasts  from  out  of  the  Arctic.  Snow  and  wind  were 
not  what  brought  the  deeper  gloom  and  fear  to  Fort 
MacPherson.  La  mort  rouge,  smallpox, — the  "red 
death," — was  galloping  through  the  wilderness. 
Eumors  were  first  verified  by  facts  from  the  Dog 
Eib  Indians.  A  quarter  of  them  were  down  with 
the  scourge  of  the  Northland.  From  Hudson's  Bay 
on  the  east  to  the  Great  Bear  on  the  west,  the  fur 


242          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTKY 

posts  were  sending  out  their  runners,  and  a  hundred 
Paul  Keveres  of  the  forests  were  riding  swiftly  be 
hind  their  dogs  to  spread  the  warning.  On  the  after 
noon  of  the  day  Philip  left  for  the  cabin,  of  Peter  God, 
a  patrol  of  the  Koyal  Mounted  came  in  on  snowshoes 
from  the  South,  and  voluntarily  went  into  quaran 
tine. 

Philip  traveled  slowly.  For  three  days  and  nights 
the  air  was  filled  with  the  "Arctic  dust'7  snow  that 
was  hard  as  flint  and  stung  like  shot;  and  it  was 
so  cold  that  he  paused  frequently  and  built  small 
fires,  over  which  he  filled  his  lungs  with  hot  air  and 
smoke.  He  knew  what  it  meant  to  have  the  lungs 
"touched" — sloughing  away  in  the  spring,  blood- 
spitting,  and  certain  death. 

On  the  fourth  day  the  temperature  began  to  rise ; 
the  fifth  it  was  clear,  and  thirty  degrees  warmer. 
His  thermometer  had  gone  to  sixty  below  zero.  It 
was  now  thirty  below. 

It  was  the  morning  of  the  sixth  day  when  he 
reached  the  thick  fringe  of  stunted  spruce  that  shel 
tered  Peter  God's  cabin.  He  was  half  blinded.  The 
snow-filled  blizzards  cut  his  face  until  it  was  swollen 
and  purple.  Twenty  paces  from  Peter  God's  cabin 
'he  stopped,  and  stared,  and  rubbed  his  eyes — and 
rubbed  them  again — as  though  not  quite  sure  his 
vision  was  not  playing  him  a  trick. 

A  cry  broke  from  his  lips  then.  Over  Peter  God's 
door  there  was  nailed  a  slender  sapling,  and  at  the 
end  of  that  sapling  there  floated  a  tattered,  wind- 
beaten  red  rag.  It  was  the  signal.  It  was  the  one 


PETER   GOU  243 

voice  common  to  all  the  wilderness — a  warning  to 
man,  woman  and  child,  white  or  red,  that  had  come 
down  through  the  centuries.  Peter  God  was  down 
with  the  smallpox ! 

For  a  few  moments  the  discovery  stunned  him. 
Then  he  was  filled  with  a  chill,  creeping  horror. 
Peter  God  was  sick  with  the  scourge.  Perhaps  he 
was  dying.  It  might  be — that  he  was  dead.  In  spite 
of  the  terror  of  the  thing  ahead  of  him,  he  thought 
of  Josephine.  If  Peter  God  was  dead 

Above  the  low  moaning  of  the  wind  in  the  spruce 
tops  he  cursed  himself.  He  had  thought  a  crime, 
and  he  clenched  his  mittened  hands  as  he  stared  at 
the  one  window  of  the  cabin.  His  eyes  shifted  up 
ward.  In  the  air  was  a  filmy,  floating  gray.  It  was 
smoke  coming  from  the  chimney.  Peter  God  was 
not  dead. 

Something  kept  him  from  shouting  Peter  God's 
name,  that  the  trapper  might  come  to  the  door.  He 
went  to  the  window,  and  looked  in.  For  a  few 
moments  he  could  see  nothing.  And  then,  dimly,  he 
made  out  the  cot  against  the  wall.  And  Peter  God 
sat  on  the  cot,  hunched  forward,  his  head  in  his 
hands.  With  a  quick  breath  Philip  turned  to  the 
door,  opened  it,  and  entered  the  cabin. 

Peter  God  staggered  to  his  feet  as  the  door  opened. 
His  eyes  were  wild  and  filled  with  fever. 

"You — Curtis!"  he  cried  huskily.  "My  God, 
didn't  you  see  the  flag?" 

"Yes." 

Philip's  half- frozen  features  were   smiling,  and 


244          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

now  lie  was  holding  out  a  hand  from  which  he  had 
drawn  his  mitten. 

"  Lucky  I  happened  along  just  now,  old  man. 
You've  got  it,  eh?" 

Peter  God  shrank  back  from  the  other's  out 
stretched  hand. 

"There's  time,"  he  cried,  pointing  to  the  door. 
"Don't  breathe  this  air.  Get  out.  I'm  not  bad  yet 
— but  it's  smallpox,  Curtis!" 

"I  know  it,"  said  Philip,  beginning  to  throw  off 
Ms  hood  and  coat.  "I'm  not  afraid  of  it.  I  had 
a  touch  of  it  three  years  ago  over  on  the  Gray  Buz 
zard,  so  I  guess  I'm  immune.  Besides,  I've  come 
two  thousand  miles  to  see  you,  Peter  God — two  thou 
sand  miles  to  bring  you  a  letter  from  Josephine 
McCloud." 

For  ten  seconds  Peter  God  stood  tense  and  mo 
tionless.  Then  he  swayed  forward. 

"A  letter — for  Peter  God — from  Josephine  Mc 
Cloud!"  he  gasped,  and  held  out  his  hands. 

An  hour  later  they  sat  facing  each  other — Peter 
God  and  Curtis.  The  beginning  of  the  scourge  be 
trayed  itself  in  the  red  flush  of  Peter  God 'a  face, 
and  the  fever  in  his  eyes.  But  he  was  calm.  For 
many  minutes  he  had  spoken  in  a  quiet,  even  voice, 
and  Philip  Curtis  sat  with  scarcely  a  breath  and 
a  heart  that  at  times  had  risen  in  his  throat  to 
choke  him.  In  his  hand  Peter  God  held  the  pages 
of  the  letter  he  had  read. 

Now  he  went  on: 


PETER   GOD  245 

"So  I'm  going  to  tell  it  all  to  you,  Curtis — be 
cause  I  know  that  you  are  a  man.  Josephine  has 
left  nothing  out.  She  has  told  me  of  your  love,  and 
of  the  reward  she  has  promised  you — if  Peter  God 
sends  back  a  certain  word.  She  says  frankly  that 
she  does  not  love  you,  but  that  she  honors  you  above 
all  men — except  her  father,  and  one  other.  That 
other,  Curtis,  is  myself.  Years  ago  the  woman  you 
love — was  my  wife." 

Peter  God  put  a  hand  to  his  head,  as  if  to  cool  the 
fire  that  was  beginning  to  burn  him  up. 

"Her  name  wasn't  Mrs.  Peter  God,"  he  went  on, 
and  a  smile  fought  grimly  on  his  lips.  "That's  the 
one  thing  I  won't  tell  you,  Curtis — my  name.  The 
story  itself  will  be  enough. 

"Perhaps  there  were  two  other  people  in  the 
world  happier  than  we.  I  doubt  it.  I  got  into  poli 
tics.  I  made  an  enemy,  a  deadly  enemy.  He  was  a 
blackmailer,  a  thief,  the  head  of  a  political  ring  that 
lived  on  graft.  Through  my  efforts  he  was  exposed. 
And  then  he  laid  for  me — and  he  got  me. 

"I  must  give  him  credit  for  doing  it  cleverly  and 
completely.  He  set  a  trap  for  me,  and  a  woman 
helped  him.  I  won't  go  into  details.  The  trap 
sprung,  and  it  caught  me.  Even  Josephine  could 
not  be  made  to  believe  in  my  innocence ;  so  cleverly 
was  the  trap  set  that  my  best  friends  among  the 
newspapers  could  find  no  excuse  for  me. 

"I  have  never  blamed  Josephine  for  what  she  did 
after  that.  To  all  the  world,  and  most  of  all  to 
her,  I  was  caught  red-handed.  I  knew  that  she  loved 


246          BACK   TO   GOD'S    COUNTRY 

me  even  as  she  was  divorcing  me.  On  the  day  the 
divorce  was  given  to  her,  my  brain  went  bad.  The 
world  turned  red,  and  then  black,  and  then  red  again. 
Andl- 

Peter  God  paused  again,  with  a  hand  to  his  head. 

1  'You  came  np  here,"  said  Philip,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Not — until  I  had  seen  the  man  who  ruined  me," 
replied  Peter  God  quietly.  "We  were  alone  in  his 
office.  I  gave  him  a  fair  chance  to  redeem  himself 
• — to  confess  what  he  had  done.  He  laughed  at  me, 
exulted  over  my  fall,  taunted  me.  And  so — I  killed 
him." 

He  rose  from  his  chair  and  stood  swaying.  He 
was  not  excited. 

"In  his  office,  with  his  dead  body  at  my  feet,  I 
wrote  a  note  to  Josephine,"  he  finished.  "I  told  her 
what  I  had  done,  and  again  I  swore  my  innocence.  I 
wrote  her  that  some  day  she  might  hear  from  me, 
but  not  under  my  right  name,  as  the  law  would  al 
ways  be  watching  for  me.  It  was  ironic  that  on  that 
human  cobra's  desk  there  lay  an  open  Bible,  open 
at  the  Book  of  Peter,  and  involuntarily  I  wrote  the 
words  to  Josephine — Peter  God.  She  has  kept  my 
secret,  while  the  law  has  hunted  for  me.  And 
this " 

He  held  the  pages  of  the  letter  out  to  Philip. 

"Take  the  letter — go  outside — and  read  what  she 
has  written,"  he  said.  "Come  back  in  half  an  hour. 
I  want  to  think." 

Back  of  the  cabin,  where  Peter  God  had  piled  his 


PETER   GOD  247 

winter's  fuel,  Philip  read  the  letter;  and  at  times 
the  soul  within  him  seemed  smothered,  and  at  times 
it  quivered  with  a  strange  and  joyous  emotion. 

At  last  vindication  had  come  for  Peter  God,  and 
before  he  had  read  a  page  of  the  letter  Philip  under 
stood  why  it  was  that  Josephine  had  sent  him  with 
it  into  the  North.  For  nearly  seven  years  she  had 
known  of  Peter  God's  innocence  of  the  thing  for 
which  she  had  divorced  him.  The  woman — the  dead 
man's  accomplice — had  told  her  the  whole  story,  as 
Peter  God  a  few  minutes  before  had  told  it  to  Cur 
tis;  and  during  those  seven  years  she  had  traveled 
the  world  seeking  for  him — the  man  who  bore  the 
name  of  Peter  God. 

Each  night  she  had  prayed  God  that  the  next  day 
she  might  find  him,  and  now  that  her  prayer  had 
been  answered,  she  begged  that  she  might  come  to 
him,  and  share  with  him  for  all  time  a  life  away 
from  the  world  they  knew. 

The  woman  breathed  like  life  in  the  pages  Philip 
read ;  yet  with  that  wonderful  message  to  Peter  God 
she  pilloried  herself  for  those  red  and  insane  hours 
in  which  she  had  lost  faith  in  him.  She  had  no 
excuse  for  herself,  except  her  great  love ;  she  cruci 
fied  herself,  even  as  she  held  out  her  arms  to  him 
across  that  thousand  miles  of  desolation.  Frankly 
she  had  written  of  the  great  price  she  was  offering 
for  this  one  chance  of  life  and  happiness.  She  told 
of  Philip's  love,  and  of  the  reward  she  had  offered 
him  should  Peter  God  find  that  in  his  heart  love 
had  died  for  her.  Which  should  it  be? 


248          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

Twice  Philip  read  that  wonderful  message  he  had 
brought  into  the  North,  and  he  envied  Peter  God, 
the  outlaw. 

The  thirty  minutes  were  gone  when  he  entered 
the  cabin.  Peter  God  was  waiting  for  him.  He 
motioned  him  to  a  seat  close  to  him. 

"You  have  read  it?"  he  asked. 

Philip  nodded.  In  these  moments  he  did  not  trust 
himself  to  speak.  Peter  God  understood.  The  flush 
was  deeper  in  his  face;  his  eyes  burned  brighter 
with  the  fever;  but  of  the  two  he  was  the  calmer, 
and  his  voice  was  steady. 

"I  haven't  much  time,  Curtis,"  he  said,  and  he 
smiled  faintly  as  he  folded  the  pages  of  the  letter. 
"My  head  is  cracking.  But  I've  thought  it  all  out, 
and  you've  got  to  go  back  to  her — and  tell  her  that 
Peter  God  is  dead." 

A  gasp  broke  from  Philip's  lips.  It  was  his  only 
answer. 

"It's — best,"  continued  Peter  God,  and  he  spoke 
more  slowly,  but  firmly.  "I  love  her,  Curtis.  God 
knows  that  it's  been  only  my  dreams  of  her  that 
have  kept  me  alive  all  these  years.  She  wants  to 
come  to  me,  but  it's  impossible.  I'm  an  outlaw.  The 
law  won't  excuse  my  killing  of  the  cobra.  We'd 
have  to  hide.  All  our  lives  we  'd  have  to  hide.  And 
— some  day — they  might  get  me.  There's  just  one 
thing  to  do.  Go  back  to  her.  Tell  her  Peter  God 
is  dead.  And — make  her  happy — if  you  can." 

For  the  first  time  something  rose  and  over 
whelmed  the  love  in  Philip's  breast. 


PETER    COD  249 

"She  wants  to  come  to  you,"  he  cried,  and  he 
leaned  toward  Peter  God,  white-faced,  clenching  his 
hands.  "She  wants  to  come!"  he  repeated.  "And 
the  law  won't  find  you.  It's  been  seven  years — and 
God  knows  no  word  will  ever  go  from  me.  It  won 't 
find  you.  And  if  it  should,  you  can  fight  it  together, 
you  and  Josephine." 

Peter  God  held  out  his  hands. 

"Now  I  know  I  need  have  no  fear  in  sending  you 
back,"  he  said  huskily.  "You're  a  man.  And 
you've  got  to  go.  She  can't  come  to  me,  Curtis.  It 
would  kill  her — this  life.  Think  of  a  winter  here — 
madness — the  yapping  of  the  foxes — 

He  put  a  hand  to  his  head,  and  swayed. 

"You've  got  to  go.  Tell  her  Peter  God  is 
dead- 
Philip  sprang  forward  as  Peter  God  crumpled 
down  on  his  bunk. 

After  that  came  the  long  dark  hours  of  fever  and 
delirium.  They  crawled  along  into  days,  and  day 
and  night  Philip  fought  to  keep  life  in  the  body  of 
the  man  who  had  given  the  world  to  him,  for  as  the 
fight  continued  he  began  more  and  more  to  accept 
Josephine  as  his  own.  He  had  come  fairly.  He  had 
kept  his  pledge.  And  Peter  God  had  spoken. 

"You  must  go.  You  must  tell  her  Peter  God  is 
dead." 

And  Philip  began  to  accept  this,  not  altogether  as 
his  joy,  but  as  his  duty.  He  could  not  argue  with 
Peter  God  when  he  rose  from  his  sick  bed.  He  would 
go  back  to  Josephine. 


250          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

For  many  days  lie  and  Peter  God  fought  with  the 
"red  death"  in  the  little  cabin.  It  was  a  fight  which 
he  could  never  forget.  One  afternoon — to  strengthen 
himself  for  the  terrible  night  that  was  coming — he 
walked  several  miles  back  into  the  stunted  spruce 
on  his  snowshoes.  It  was  mid-afternoon  when  he 
returned  with  a  haunch  of  caribou  meat  on  his 
shoulder.  Three  hundred  yards  from  the  cabin 
something  stopped  him  like  a  shot.  He  listened. 
From  ahead  of  him  came  the  whining  and  snarling 
of  dogs,  the  crack  of  a  whip,  a  shout  which  he  could 
not  understand.  He  dropped  his  burden  of  meat 
and  sped  on.  At  the  southward  edge  of  a  level  open 
he  stopped  again.  Straight  ahead  of  him  was  the 
cabin.  A  hundred  yards  to  the  right  of  him  was  a 
dog  team  and  a  driver.  Between  the  team  and  the 
cabin  a  hooded  and  coated  figure  was*  running  in  the 
direction  of  the  danger  signal  on  the  sapling  pole. 

With  a  cry  of  warning  Philip  darted  in  pursuit. 
He  overtook  the  figure  at  the  cabin  door.  His  hand 
caught  it  by  the  arm.  It  turned — and  he  stared  into 
the  white,  terror-stricken  face  of  Josephine 
McCloud! 

"Good  God!"  he  cried,  and  that  was  all. 

She  gripped  him  with  both  hands.  He  had  never 
heard  her  voice  as  it  was  now.  She  answered  the 
amazement  and  horror  in  his  face. 

"I  sent  you  a  letter,"  she  cried  pantingly,  "and 
it  didn't  overtake  you.  As  soon  as  you  were  gone, 
I  knew  that  I  must  come — that  I  must  follow — that 
I  must  speak  with  my  own  lips  what  I  had  written. 


PETER   GOD  251 

I  tried  to  catch  yon.  But  yon  traveled  faster.  "Wfll 
yon  forgive  me — yon  will  forgive  me " 

She  tnrned  to  the  door.    He  held  her. 

"It  is  the  smallpox, "  he  said,  and  his  voice  was 
dead. 

"I  know,"  she  panted.  "The  man  over  there — 
told  me  what  the  little  flag  means.  And  I'm  glad — 
glad  I  came  in  time  to  go  in  to  him — as  he  is.  And 
yon — yon — mnst  forgive ! ' ' 

She  snatched  herself  free  from  his  grasp.  The 
door  opened.  It  closed  behind  her.  A  moment  later 
he  heard  through  the  sapling  door  a  strange  cry — 
a  woman 's  cry — a  man's  cry — and  he  tnrned  and 
walked  heavily  back  into  the  spruce  forest, 


THE  MOUSE 

,  you  ornery  little  cuss,"  said  Falkner,  paufe- 
ing  with  a  forkful  of  beans  half  way  to  his  mouth. 
''Where  in  God  A 'mighty 's  name  did  you  come 
from?" 

It  was  against  all  of  Jim's  crude  but  honest  ethics 
of  the  big  wilderness  to  take  the  Lord's  name  in 
vain,  and  the  words  he  uttered  were  filled  more  with 
the  softness  of  a  prayer  than  the  harshness  of  pro 
fanity.  He  was  big,  and  his  hands  were  hard  and 
knotted,  and  his  face  was  covered  with  a  coarse  red 
scrub  of  beard.  But  his  hair  was  blond,  and  his 
eyes  were  blue,  and  just  now  they  were  filled  with 
unbounded  amazement.  Slowly  the  fork  loaded  with 
beans  descended  to  his  plate,  and  he  said  again, 
barely  above  a  whisper : 

"Where  in  God  A 'mighty 's  name  did  you  come 
from?" 

There  was  nothing  human  in  the  one  room  of  his 
wilderness  cabin  to  speak  of.  At  the  first  glance 
there  was  nothing  alive  in  the  room,  with  the  excep 
tion  of  Jim  Falkner  himself.  There  was  not  even 
a  dog,  for  Jim  had  lost  his  one  dog  weeks  before. 
And  yet  he  spoke,  and  his  eyes  glistened,  and  for 

252 


THE   MOUSE  253 

a  full  minnte  after  that  he  sat  as  motionless  as  a 
rock.  Then  something  moved — at  the  farther  end 
of  the  rough  board  table.  It  was  a  mouse — a  soft, 
brown,  bright-eyed  little  mouse,  not  as  large  as  his 
thumb.  It  was  not  like  the  mice  Jim  had  been  accus 
tomed  to  see  in  the  North  woods,  the  larger,  sharp- 
nosed,  rat-like  creatures  which  sprung  his  traps  now 
and  then,  and  he  gave  a  sort  of  gasp  through  his 
beard. 

"I'm  as  crazy  as  a  loon  if  it  isn't  a  sure-enough 
down-home  mouse,  just  like  we  used  to  catch  in  the 
kitchen  down  in  Ohio,"  he  told  himself.  And  for 
the  third  time  he  asked.  "Now  where  in  God 
A 'mighty 's  name  did  you  come  from?" 

The  mouse  made  no  answer.  It  had  humped  it 
self  up  into  a  little  ball,  and  was  eyeing  Jim  with 
the  keenest  of  suspicion. 

"You're  a  thousand  miles  from  home,  old  man," 
Falkner  addressed  it,  still  without  a  movement. 
"You're  a  clean  thousand  miles  straight  north  of 
the  kind  o'  civilization  you  was  born  in,  and  I  want 
to  know  how  you  got  here.  By  George — is  it  pos 
sible — you  got  mixed  up  in  that  box  of  stuff  she  sent 
up?  Did  you  come  from  her?" 

He  made  a  sudden  movement,  as  if  he  expected 
an  answer,  and  in  a  flash  the  mouse  had  scurried 
off  the  table  and  had  disappeared  under  his  bunk. 

"The  little  cuss!"  said  Falkner.  "He's  sure  got 
his  nerve!" 

He  went  on  eating  his  beans,  and  when  he  had 
done  he  lighted  a  lamp,  for  the  half  Arctic  darkness 


254          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

was  falling  early,  and  began  to  clear  away  the  dishes. 
When  he  had  done  he  put  a  scrap  of  bannock  and  a 
few  beans  on  the  corner  of  the  table. 

"I'll  bet  he's  hungry,  the  little  cuss,"  he  said. 
"A  thousand  miles — in  that  box!" 

He  sat  down  close  to  the  sheet-iron  box  stove, 
which  was  glowing  red-hot,  and  filled  his  pipe. 
Kerosene  was  a  precious  commodity,  and  he  had 
turned  down  the  lamp  wick  until  he  was  mostly  in 
gloom.  Outside  a  storm  was  wailing  down  across 
the  Barrens  from  the  North.  He  could  hear  the 
swish  of  the  spruce-boughs  overhead,  and  those 
moaning,  half-shrieking  sounds  that  always  came 
with  storm  from  out  of  the  North,  and  sometimes 
fooled  even  him  into  thinking  they  were  human 
cries.  They  had  seemed  more  and  more  human  to 
him  during  the  past  three  days,  and  he  was  growing 
afraid.  Once  or  twice  strange  thoughts  had  come 
Into  his  head,  and  he  had  tried  to  fight  them  down. 
He  had  known  of  men  whom  loneliness  had  driven 
mad — and  he  was  terribly  lonely.  He  shivered  as  a 
piercing  blast  of  wind  filled  with  a  mourning  wail 
swept  over  the  cabin. 

And  that  day,  too,  he  had  been  taken  with  a  touch 
of  fever.  It  burned  more  hotly  in  his  blood  to-night, 
and  he  knew  that  it  was  the  loneliness — the  empti 
ness  of  the  world  about  him,  the  despair  and  black 
foreboding  that  came  to  him  with  the  first  early  twi 
lights  of  the  Long  Night.  For  he  was  in  the  edge 
of  that  Long  Night.  For  weeks  he  would  only  now 
and  then  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  sun.  He  shuddered. 


THE   MOUSE  255 

A  hundred  and  fifty  miles  to  the  south  and  east 
there  was  a  Hudson 's  Bay  post.  Eighty  miles  south 
was  the  nearest  trapper's  cabin  he  knew  of.  Two 
months  before  he  had  gone  down  to  the  post,  with 
a  thick  beard  to  cover  his  face,  and  had  brought 
back  supplies — and  the  box.  His  wife  had  sent  up 
the  box  to  him,  only  it  had  come  to  him  as  "John 
Blake"  instead  of  Jim  Falkner,  his  right  name. 
There  were  things  in  it  for  him  to  wear,  and  pic 
tures  of  the  sweet-faced  wife  who  was  still  filled 
with  prayer  and  hope  for  him,  and  of  the  kid,  their 
boy.  "He  is  walking  now,"  she  had  written  to  him, 
"and  a  dozen  times  a  day  he  goes  to  your  picture 
and  says  'Pa-pa — Pa-pa' — and  every  night  we  talk 
about  you  before  we  go  to  bed,  and  pray  God  to  send 
you  back  to  us  soon." 

"God  bless  'em!"  breathed  Jim. 

He  had  not  lighted  his  pipe,  and  there  was  some 
thing  in  his  eyes  that  shimmered  and  glistened  in 
the  dull  light.  And  then,  as  he  sat  silent,  his  eyes 
clearing,  he  saw  that  the  little  mouse  had  climbed 
back  to  the  edge  of  the  table.  It  did  not  eat  the 
food  he  had  placed  there  for  it,  but  humped  itself 
up  in  a  tiny  ball  again,  and  its  tiny  shining  eyes 
looked  in  his  direction. 

"You're  not  hungry,"  said  Jim,  and  he  spoke 
aloud.  "You're  lonely,  too — that's  it!" 

A  strange  thrill  shot  through  him  at  the  thought, 
and  he  wondered  again  if  he  was  mad  at  the  longing 
that  filled  him — the  desire  to  reach  out  and  snuggle 
the  little  creature  in  his  hand,  and  hold  it  elose 


256          BACK   TO   GOD'S    COUNTRY 

up  to  his  bearded  face,  and  talk  to  it!  He  laughed, 
and  drew  his  stool  a  little  more  into  the  light.  The 
mouse  did  not  run.  He  edged  nearer  and  nearer, 
until  his  elbows  rested  on  the  table,  and  a  curious 
feeling  of  pleasure  took  the  place  of  his  loneliness 
when  he  saw  that  the  mouse  was  looking  at  him,  and 
yet  seemed  unafraid. 

" Don't  be  scairt,"  he  said  softly,  speaking  di 
rectly  to  it.  "I  won't  hurt  you.  No,  siree,  I'd — I'd 
cut  off  a  hand  before  I'd  do  that.  I  ain't  had  any 
company  but  you  for  two  months.  I  ain't  seen  a 
human  face,  or  heard  a  human  voice — nothing — 
nothing  but  them  shrieks  ?n'  wails  'n'  baby-cryings 
out  there  in  the  wind.  I  won't  hurt  you— 

His  voice  was  almost  pleading  in  its  gentleness. 
'And  for  the  tenth  time  that  day  he  felt,  with  his 
fever,  a  sickening  dizziness  in  his  head.  For  a 
moment  or  two  his  vision  was  blurred,  but  he  could 
still  see  the  mouse — farther  away,  it  seemed  to  him. 

' 'I  don't  s'pose  you've  killed  anyone — or  any 
thing,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  seemed  thick  and  dis 
tant  to  him.  "Mice  don't  kill,  do  they?  They  live 
on — cheese.  But  I  have — I've  killed.  I  killed  a 
man.  That's  why  I'm  here." 

His  dizziness  almost  overcame  him,  and  he  leaned 
heavily  against  the  table.  Still  the  little  mouse  did 
not  move.  Still  he  could  see  it  through  the  strange 
gauze  veil  before  his  eyes. 

"I  killed — a  man,"  he  repeated,  and  now  he  was 
wondering  why  the  mouse  did  not  say  something  at 
that  remarkable  confession.  "I  killed  him,  old  man, 


THE   MOUSE  257 

an'  yon'd  have  done  the  same  if  you'd  been  in  my 
place.  I  didn't  mean  to.  I  struck  too  hard.  But 
I  found  'im  in  my  cabin,  an'  she  was  fighting — fight 
ing  him  until  her  face  was  scratched  an'  her  clothes 
torn, — God  bless  her  dear  heart! — fighting  him  to 
the  last  breath,  an'  I  come  just  in  time!  He  didn't 
think  I'd  be  back  for  a  day — a  black-hearted  devil 
we  'd  fed  when  he  came  to  our  door  hungry.  I  killed 
him.  And  they've  hunted  me  ever  since.  They'll 
put  a  rope  round  my  neck,  an'  choke  me  to  death 
if  they  catch  me — because  I  came  in  time  to  save 
her!  That's  law! 

"But  they  won't  find  me.  I've  been  up  here  a 
year  now,  and  in  the  spring  I'm  going  down  there 
— where  you  come  from — back  to  the  Girl  and  the 
Kid.  The  policemen  won't  be  looking  for  me  then. 
An'  we're  going  to  some  other  part  of  the  world, 
an'  live  happy.  She's  waitin'  for  me,  she  an'  the 
kid,  an'  they  know  I'm  coming  in  the  spring.  Yes- 
sir,  I  killed  a  man.  An '  they  want  to  kill  me  for  it. 
That's  the  law — Canadian  law — the  law  that  wants 
an  eye  for  an  eye  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth,  an'  where 
there  ain't  no  extenuatin'  circumstance.  They  call 
It  murder.  But  it  wasn't — was  it?" 

He  waited  for  an  answer.  The  mouse  seemed 
going  farther  and  farther  away  from  him.  He 
leaned  more  heavily  on  the  table. 

"It  wasn't — was  it?"  he  persisted. 

His  arms  reached  out ;  his  head  dropped  f  orward, 
and  the  little  mouse  scurried  to  the  floor.  But  Folk' 
ner  did  not  know  that  it  had  gone. 


258          BACK  TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

"I  killed  him,  an'  I  guess  I'd  do  it  again,"  lie 
said,  and  his  words  were  only  a  whisper.  "An* 
to-night  they're  prayin*  for  me  down  there — she  'n' 
the  kid — an'  he's  saying  'Pa-pa — Pa-pa';  an'  they 
sent  you  up — to  keep  me  company " 

His  head  dropped  wearily  upon  his  arms.  The 
red  stove  crackled,  and  turned  slowly  black.  In  the 
cabin  it  grew  darker,  except  where  the  dim  light 
burned  on  the  table.  Outside  the  storm  wailed  and 
screeched  down  across  the  Barren.  And  after  a  time 
the  mouse  came  back.  It  looked  at  Jim  Falkner. 
It  came  nearer,  until  it  touched  the  unconscious 
man's  sleeve.  More  daringly  it  ran  over  his  arm. 
It  smelled  of  his  fingers. 

Then  the  mouse  returned  to  the  corner  of  the 
table,  and  began  eating  the  food  that  Falkner  had 
placed  there  for  it. 

The  wick  of  the  lamp  had  burned  low  when  Falk 
ner  raised  his  head.  The  stove  was  black  and  cold. 
Outside,  the  storm  still  raged,  and  it  was  the  shiv 
ering  shriek  of  it  over  the  cabin  that  Falkner  first 
heard.  He  felt  terribly  dizzy,  and  there  was  a 
sharp,  knife-like  pain  just  back  of  his  eyes.  By  tho 
gray  light  that  came  through  the  one  window  he 
knew  that  what  was  left  of  Arctic  day  had  come.  He 
rose  to  his  feet,  and  staggered  about  like  a  drunken 
man  as  he  rebuilt  the  fire,  and  he  tried  to  laugh  as 
the  truth  dawned  upon  him  that  he  had  been  sick, 
and  that  he  had  rested  for  hours  with  his  head  on 
the  table.  His  back  seemed  broken.  His  legs  were 
numb,  and  hurt  him  when  he  stepped  on  them.  He 


THE   MOUSE  259 

swung  his  arms  a  little  to  bring  back  circulation, 
and  rubbed  his  hands,  over  the  fire  that  began  to 
crackle  in  the  stove. 

It  was  the  sickness  that  had  overcome  him — he 
knew  that.  But  the  thought  of  it  did  not  appall  him 
as  it  had  yesterday,  and  the  day  before.  There 
seemed  to  be  something  in  the  cabin  now  that  com 
forted  and  soothed  him,  something  that  took  away  a 
part  of  the  loneliness  that  was  driving  him  mad. 
Even  as  he  searched  about  him,  peering  into  the 
dark  corners  and  at  the  bare  walls,  a  word  formed 
on  his  lips,  and  he  half  smiled.  It  was  a  woman's 
name — Hester.  And  a  warmth  entered  into  him. 
The  pain  left  his  head.  For  the  first  time  in  weeks 
he  felt  different.  And  slowly  he  began  to  realize 
what  had  wrought  the  change.  He  was  not  alone. 
A  message  had  come  to  him  from  the  one  who  was 
waiting  for  him  miles  away;  something  that  lived, 
and  breathed,  and  was  as  lonely  as  himself.  It  was 
the  little  mouse. 

He  looked  about  eagerly,  his  eyes  brightening,  but 
the  mouse  was  gone.  He  could  not  hear  it.  There 
seemed  nothing  unusual  to  him  in  the  words  he 
spoke  aloud  to  himself. 

"I'm  going  to  call  it  after  the  Kid,"  he  chuckled. 
"I'm  goin'  to  call  it  Little  Jim.  I  wonder  if  it's  a 
girl  mouse — or  a  boy  mouse!" 

He  placed  a  pan  of  snow-water  on  the  stove  and 
began  making  his  simple  preparations  for  break 
fast.  For  the  first  time  in  many  days  he  felt  actually 
hungry.  And  then  all  at  once  he  stopped,  and  a  low 


260          BACK   TO   GOD'S    COUNTRY 

cry  that  was  half  joy  and  half  wonder  broke  from 
his  lips.  With  tensely  gripped  hands  and  eyes  that 
shone  with  a  strange  light  he  stared  straight  at  the 
blank  surface  of  the  log  wall — through  it — and  a 
thousand  miles  away.  He  remembered  that  day — 
years  ago — the  scenes  of  which  came  to  him  now  as 
though  they  had  been  but  yesterday.  It  was  after 
noon,  in  the  glorious  summer,  and  he  had  gone  to 
Hester's  home.  Only  the  day  before  Hester  had 
promised  to  be  his  wife,  and  he  remembered  how 
fidgetty  and  uneasy  and  yet  wondrously  happy  he 
was  as  he  sat  out  on  the  big  white  veranda,  waiting 
for  her  to  put  on  her  pink  muslin  dress,  which  went 
so  well  with  the  gold  of  her  hair  and  the  blue  of  her 
eyes.  And  as  he  sat  there,  Hester's  maltese  pet 
came  up  the  steps,  bringing  in  its  jaws  a  tiny,  quiver 
ing  brown  mouse.  It  was  playing  with  the  almost 
lifeless  little  creature  when  Hester  came  through 
the  door. 

He  heard  again  the  low  cry  that  came  from  Her 
lips  then.  In  an  instant  she  had  snatched  the  tiny, 
limp  thing  from  between  the  cat's  paws,  and  had 
faced  him.  He  was  laughing  at  her,  but  the  glow  in 
her  blue  eyes  sobered  him.  "I  didn't  think  you 
would  take  pleasure  in  that,  Jim,"  she  said.  "It's 
only  a  mouse,  but  it's  alive,  and  I  can  feel  its  poor 
little  heart  beating!" 

They  had  saved  it,  and  he,  a  little  ashamed  at  the 
smallness  of  the  act,  had  gone  with  Hester  to  the 
barn  and  made  a  nest  for  it  in  the  hay.  But  the 
wonderful  words  that  he  remembered  were  these: 


THE   MOUSE  261 

"Perhaps  some  day  a  little  monse  will  help  you, 
Jim!"  Hester  had  spoken  laughingly.  And  her 
words  had  come  true! 

All  the  time  that  Falkner  was  preparing  and  eat 
ing  his  breakfast  he  watched  for  the  mouse,  but  it 
did  not  appear.  Then  he  went  to  the  door.  It 
swung  outward,  and  it  took  all  his  weight  to  force 
it  open.  On  one  side  of  the  cabin  the  snow  was 
drifted  almost  to  the  roof.  Ahead  of  him  he  could 
foarely  make  out  the  dark  shadow  of  the  scrib  spruce 
forest  beyond  the  little  clearing  he  had  made.  He 
could  hear  the  spruce-tops  wailing  and  twisting  in 
the  storm,  and  the  snow  and  wind  stung  his  face, 
and  half  blinded  him. 

It  was  dark — dark  with  that  gray  and  maddening 
gloom  that  yesterday  would  have  driven  him  still 
nearer  to  the  merge  of  madness.  But  this  morning  he 
laughed  as  he  listened  to  the  wailings  in  the  air  and 
stared  out  into  the  ghostly  chaos.  It  was  not  the 
thought  of  his  loneliness  that  come  to  him  now,  but 
the  thought  that  he  was  safe.  The  Law  could  not 
reach  him  now,  even  if  it  knew  where  he  was.  And 
before  it  began  its  hunt  for  him  again  in  the  spring 
he  would  bs  hiking  southward,  to  the  Girl  and  the 
Baby,  and  it  would  still  be  hunting  for  him  when 
they  three  Hpuld  be  making  a  new  home  for  them 
selves  in  gSJuie  other  part  of  the  world.  For  the 
first  time  in  months  he  was  almost  happy.  He  closed 
and  bolted  the  door,  and  began  to  whistle.  He  was 
amazed  at  the  change  in  himself,  and  wonderingly 
he  stared  at  his  reflection  in  the  cracked  bit  of  mirror 


262          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTEY 

against  the  wall.  He  grinned,  and  addressed  him 
self  aloud. 

"Yon  need  a  shave, "  he  told  himself.  "You'd 
scare  fits  out  of  anything  alive !  Now  that  we  Ve  got 
comp'ny  we've  got  to  spruce  up,  an'  look  civi 
lized." 

It  took  him  an  hour  to  get  rid  of  his  heavy  beard. 
His  face  looked  almost  boyish  again.  He  was  in 
specting  himself  in  the  mirror  when  he  heard  a 
sound  that  turned  him  slowly  toward  the  table.  The 
little  mouse  was  nosing  about  his  tin  plate.  For  a 
few  moments  Falkner  watched  it,  fearing  to  move. 
Then  he  cautiously  began  to  approach  the  table. 

"Hello  there,  old  chap,"  he  said,  trying  to  make 
his  voice  soft  and  ingratiating.  "Pretty  late  for 
breakfast,  ain't  you?" 

At  his  approach  the  mouse  humped  itself  into  a 
motionless  ball  and  watched  him.  Te  Falkner 's  de 
light  it  did  not  run  away  when  he  reached  the  table 
and  sat  down.  He  laughed  softly. 

"You  ain't  afraid,  are  you?"  he  asked.  "We're 
goin'  to  be  chums,  ain't  we?  Yessir,  we're  goin'  to 
be  chums!" 

For  a  full  minute  the  mouse  and  the  man  looked 
steadily  at  each  other.  Then  the  mouse  moved  de 
liberately  to  a  crumb  of  bannock  and  began  nibbling 
at  its  breakfast. 

For  ten  days  there  was  only  an  occasional  lull  in 
the  storm  that  came  from  out  of  the  North.  Before 
those  ten  days  were  half  over,  Jim  and  the  mouse 


THE   MOUSE  263 

understood  each  other.  The  little  mouse  itself 
solved  the  problem  of  their  nearer  acquaintance  by 
running  up  Falkner's  leg  one  morning  while  he  was 
at  breakfast,  and  coolly  investigating  him  from  the 
strings  of  his  moccasin  to  the  collar  of  his  blue  shirt. 
After  that  it  showed  no  fear  of  him,  and  a  few  days 
later  would  nestle  in  the  hollow  of  his  big  hand  and 
nibble  fearlessly  at  the  bannock  which  Falkner  would 
offer  it.  Then  Jim  took  to  carrying  it  about  with 
him  in  his  coat  pocket.  That  seemed  to  suit  the 
mouse  immensely,  and  when  Jim  went  to  bed  nights, 
or  it  grew  too  warm  for  him  in  the  cabin,  he  would 
hang  the  coat  over  his  bunk,  with  the  mouse  still 
in  it,  so  that  it  was  not  long  before  the  little  creature 
made  up  its  mind  to  take  full  possession  of  the 
pocket.  It  intimated  as  much  to  Falkner  on  the 
tenth  and  last  day  of  the  storm,  when  it  began  very 
business-like  operations  of  building  a  nest  of  paper 
and  rabbits'  fur  in  the  coat  pocket.  Jim's  heart 
gave  a  big  and  sudden  jump  of  delight  when  he  saw 
the  work  going  on. 

"Bless  my  soul,  I  wonder  if  it's  a  girl  mouse  an' 
we're  goin'  to  have  babies!"  he  gasped. 

After  that  he  did  not  wear  the  coat,  through  fear 
of  disturbing  the  nest.  The  two  became  more  and 
more  friendly,  until  finally  the  mouse  would  sit  on 
Jim's  shoulder  at  meal  time,  and  nibble  at  bannock. 
What  little  trouble  the  mouse  caused  only  added  to 
Falkner's  love  for  it. 

"He's  a  human  little  cuss,"  he  told  himself  one 
day,  as  he  watched  the  mouse  busy  at  work  caching 


264          BACK   TO    GOD'S   COUNTRY 

away  scraps  of  food,  which  it  carried  through  a 
crack  in  the  sapling  floor.  "He's  that  human  I've 
got  to  put  all  my  grub  in  the  tin  cans  or  we'll  go 
short  before  spring ! ' '  His  chief  trouble  was  to  keep 
his  snowshoes  out  of  his  tiny  companion's  reach. 
The  mouse  had  developed  an  unholy  passion  for 
babiche,  the  caribou  skin  thongs  used  in  the  webs 
of  his  shoes,  and  one  of  the  webs  was  half  eaten  away 
before  Falkner  discovered  what  was  going  on.  At 
last  he  was  compelled  to  suspend  the  shoes  from  a 
nail  driven  in  one  of  the  roof-beams. 

In  the  evening,  when  the  stove  glowed  hot,  and  a 
cotton  wick  sputtered  in  a  pan  of  caribou  grease  on 
the  table,  Falkner 's  chief  diversion  was  to  tell  the 
mouse  all  about  his  plans,  and  hopes,  and  what  had 
happened  in  the  past.  He  took  an  almost  boyish 
pleasure  in  these  one-sided  entertainments — and 
yet,  after  all,  they  were  not  entirely  one-sided,  for 
the  mouse  would  keep  its  bright,  serious-looking 
little  eyes  on  Falkner 's  face;  it  seemed  to  under 
stand,  if  it  could  not  talk. 

Falkner  loved  to  tell  the  little  fellow  of  the  won 
derful  days  of  four  or  five  years  ago  away  down  in 
the  sunny  Ohio  valley  where  he  had  courted  the 
Girl  and  wrhere  they  lived  before  they  moved  to 
the  farm  in  Canada.  He  tried  to  impress  upon 
Little  Jim's  mind  what  it  meant  for  a  great  big, 
unhandsome  fellow  like  himself  to  be  loved  by  a 
tender  slip  of  a  girl  whose  hair  was  like  gold  and 
whose  eyes  were  as  blue  as  the  wood-violets.  One 
evening  he  fumbled  for  a  minute  under  his  bunk  and 


THE   MOUSE  265 

came  back  to  the  table  with  a  worn  and  finger-marked 
manila  envelope,  from  which  he  drew  tenderly  and 
with  almost  trembling  care  a  long,  shining  tress  of 
golden  hair. 

"That  hers,"  he  said  proudly,  placing  it  on  the 
table  close  to  the  mouse.  "An'  she's  got  so  much 
of  it  you  can't  see  her  to  the  hips  when  she  takes 
it  down;  an'  out  in  the  sun  it  shines  like — like — 
glory!" 

The  stove  door  crashed  open,  and  a  number  of 
coals  fell  out  upon  the  floor.  For  a  few  minutes 
Falkner  was  busy,  and  when  he  returned  to  the 
table  he  gave  a  gasp  of  astonishment.  The  curl  and 
the  mouse  were  gone!  Little  Jim  had  almost 
reached  its  nest  with  its  lovely  burden  when  Falkner 
captured  it. 

"You  little  cuss!"  he  breathed  revently.  "Now  I 
'know  you  come  from  her!  I  know  it!" 

In  the  weeks  that  followed  the  storm  Falkner 
again  followed  his  trap-lines,  and  scattered  poison- 
baits  for  the  white  foxes  on  the  Barren.  Early  in 
January  the  second  great  storm  of  that  year  came 
from  out  of  the  North.  It  gave  no  warning,  and 
Falkner  was  caught  ten  miles  from  camp.  He  was 
making  a  struggle  for  life  before  he  reached  the 
shack.  He  was  exhausted,  and  half  blinded.  He 
could  hardly  stand  on  his  feet  when  he  staggered 
up  against  his  own  door.  He  could  see  nothing 
when  he  entered.  He  stumbled  over  a  stool,  and 
fell  to  the  floor.  Before  he  could  rise  a  strange 
weight  was  upon  him.  He  made  no  resistance,  for 


BACK   TO   GOD'S    COUNTRY 

he  storm  had  driven  the  last  ounce  of  strength  from 
his  body. 

"It's  "been  a  long  chase,  but  I've  got  you  now, 
Falkner,"  he  heard  a  triumphant  voice  say.  And 
then  came  the  dreaded  formula,  feared  to  the  utter 
most  limits  of  the  great  Northern  wilderness:  "I 
warn  you!  You  are  my  prisoner,  in  the  name  of 
His  Majesty,  the  King!" 

Corporal  Carr,  of  the  Eoyal  Mounted  of  the 
Northwest,  wras  a  man  without  human  sympathies. 
He  was  thin  faced,  with  a  square,  bony  jaw,  and 
lips  that  formed  a  straight  line.  His  eyes  were 
greenish,  like  a  cat's,  and  were  constantly  shifting. 
He  was  a  beast  of  prey,  as  much  as  the  wolf,  the 
lynx,  or  the  fox — and  his  prey  was  men.  Only  such 
a  man  as  Carr,  alone  would  have  braved  the  treach 
erous  snows  and  the  intense  cold  of  the  Arctic 
winter  to  run  him  down.  Falkner  knew  that,  as  an 
hour  later  he  looked  over  the  roaring  stove  at  his 
captor.  About  Carr  there  was  something  of  the 
unpleasant  quickness,  the  sinuous  movement,  of  the 
little  white  ermine — the  outlaw  of  the  wilderness. 
His  eyes  were  as  merciless.  At  times  Falkner 
caught  the  same  red  glint  in  them.  And  above  his 
despair,  the  utter  hopelessness  of  his  situation,  there 
rose  in  him  an  intense  hatred  and  loathing  of  the 
man. 

Falkner 's  hands  were  then  securely  tied  behind 
him. 

"I'd  put  the  irons  on  you,"  Carr  had  explained 


THE   MOUSE  267 

in  a  hard,  emotionless  voice,  "only  I  lost  them  some 
where  back  there." 

Beyond  that  he  had  not  said  a  dozen  words.  He 
had  built  up  the  fire,  thawed  himself  out,  and  helped 
himself  to  food.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  he  loosened 
tip  a  bit. 

"I've  had  a  devil  of  a  chase,"  he  said  bitterly, 
a  cold  glitter  in  his  eyes  as  he  looked  at  Falkner. 
"I've  been  after  you  three  months,  and  now  that 
I've  got  you  this  accursed  storm  is  going  to  hold 
me  up!  And  I  left  my  dogs  and  outfit  a  mile  back 
in  the  scrub." 

"Better  go  after  'em,"  replied  Falkner.  "If  you 
don't  there  won't  be  any  dogs  an'  outfit  by  morn 
ing." 

Corporal  Carr  rose  to  his  feet  and  went  to  the 
window.  In  a  moment  he  turned. 

"I'll  do  that,"  he  said.  "Stretch  yourself  out  on 
the  bunk.  I'll  have  to  lace  you  down  pretty  tight 
to  keep  you  from  playing  a  trick  on  me." 

There  was  something  so  merciless  and  brutal  in 
Ms  eyes  and  voice  that  Falkner  felt  like  leaping 
upon  him,  even  with  his  hands  tied  behind  his  back. 

He  was  glad,  however,  that  Carr  had  decided  to 
go.  He  was  filled  with  an  overwhelming  desire  to 
be  rid  of  him,  if  only  for  an  hour. 

He  went  to  the  bunk  and  lay  down.  Corporal  Carr 
approached,  pulling  a  roll  of  babicJie  cord  from  his 
pocket. 

"If  you  don't  mind  you  might  tie  my  hands  in 
front  instead  of  behind,"  suggested  Falkner.  "It's 


BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

goin*  to  "be  mighty  unpleasant  to  have  'em  under 
me,  if  I  've  got  to  lay  here  for  an  hour  or  two. ' ' 

"Not  on  your  life  I  won't  tie  'em  in  front!" 
snapped  Carr,  his  little  eyes  glittering.  And  then 
he  gave  a  cackling  laugh,  and  his  eyes  were  as  green 
as  a  cat's.  "An'  it  won't  be  half  so  unpleasant  as 
having  something  'round  your  neck!"  he  joked. 

"I  wish  I  was  free,5'  breathed  Falkner,  his  chest 
heaving.  "I  wish  we  could  fight,  man  t'  man.  I'd 
be  willing  to  hang  then,  just  to  have  the  chance  to 
break  your  neck.  You  ain't  a  man  of  the  Law. 
You're  a  devil." 

Carr  laughed  the  sort  of  laugh  that  sends  a  ehill 
up  one's  back,  and  drew  the  caribou-skin  cord  tight 
about  Falkner 's  ankles. 

"Can't  blame  me  for  being  a  little  careful,"  he 
said  in  his  revolting  way.  "By  your  hanging  I  be 
come  a  Sergeant.  That's  my  reward  for  running 
you  down. ' ' 

He  lighted  the  lamp  and  filled  the  stove  before  he 
left  the  cabin.  From  the  door  he  looked  back  at 
Falkner,  and  his  face  was  not  like  a  man's,  but  like 
that  of  some  terrible  death-spirit,  ghostly,  and  thin, 
and  exultant  in  the  dim  glow  of  the  lamp.  As  he 
opened  the  door  the  roar  of  the  blizzard  and  a  gust 
of  snow  filled  the  cabin.  Then  it  closed,  and  a 
groaning  curse  fell  from  Falkner 's  lips.  He  strained 
fiercely  at  the  thongs  that  bound  him,  but  after  the 
first  few  minutes  he  lay  still  breathing  hard,  know 
ing  that  every  effort  he  made  only  tightened  the 
caribou-skin  cord  that  bound  him. 


THE   MOUSE  269 

On  Ms  back,  He  listened  to  the  storrn.  It  was  filled 
with  the  same  strange  cries  and  moaning  sound  that 
had  almost  driven  him  to  madness,  and  now  they 
sent  through  him  a  shivering  chill  that  he  had  not 
felt  before,  even  in  the  darkest  and  most  hopeless 
hours  of  his  loneliness  and  despair.  A  breath  that 
was  almost  a  sob  broke  from  his  lips  as  a  vision  of 
the  Girl  and  the  Kid  came  to  shut  out  from  his  ears 
the  moaning  tumult  of  the  wind.  A  few  hours  be 
fore  he  had  been  filled  with  hope — almost  happiness, 
and  now  he  was  lost.  From  such  a  man  as  Carr 
there  was  no  hope  for  mercy,  or  of  escape.  Flat 
on  his  back,  he  closed  his  eyes,  and  tried  to  think — 
to  sdieme  something  that  might  happen  in  his  favor, 
to  foresee  an  opportunity  that  might  give  him  one 
last  chance.  And  then,  suddenly,  he  heard  a  sound. 
It  traveled  over  the  blanket  that  formed  a  pillow  for 
his  head.  A  cool,  soft  little  nose  touched  his  ear, 
and  then  tiny  feet  ran  swiftly  over  his  shoulder,  and 
halted  on  his  breast.  He  opened  his  eyes,  and 
stared. 

"  You  little  cuss !"  he  breathed.  A  hundred  times 
he  had  spoken  those  words,  and  each  time  they  were 
of  increasing  wonder  and  adoration.  "You  little 
cuss!"  he  whispered  again,  and  he  chuckled  aloud. 

The  mouse  was  humped  on  his  breast  in  that  curi 
ous  little  ball  that  it  made  of  itself,  and  was  eyeing 
him,  Jim  thought,  in  a  questioning  sort  of  way, 
"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  it  seemed  to  ask. 
"Where  are  your  hands'?" 

And  Jim  answered : 


270          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTBY 

1 ' They've  got  me,  old  man.  Now  what  the  dickens 
are  we  going  to  do?" 

The  mouse  began  investigating.  It  examined  his 
shoulder,  the  end  of  his  chin,  and  ran  along  his  arm, 
as  far  as  it  could  go. 

"Now  what  do  yon  think  of  that!"  Falkner  ex 
claimed  softly.  "The  little  cuss  is  wondering  where 
my  hands  are!"  Gently  he  rolled  over  on  his  side. 
"There  they  are,"  he  said,  "hitched  tighter  'n  bark 
to  a  tree!" 

He  wiggled  his  fingers,  and  in  a  moment  he  fett 
the  mouse.  The  little  creature  ran  across  the  opened 
palm  of  his  hand  to  his  wrist,  and  then  every  muscle 
in  Falkner 's  body  grew  tense,  and  one  of  the 
strangest  cries  that  ever  fell  from  human  lips  cmne 
from  his.  The  mouse  had  found  once  more  the  dried 
hide-flesh  of  which  the  snowshoe  webs  were  made. 
It  had  found  babicJie.  And  it  had  begun  to  gnawt 

In  the  minutes  that  followed  Falkner  scarcely 
breathed.  He  could  feel  the  mouse  when  it  worked. 
Above  the  stifled  beating  of  his  heart  he  could  hear 
its  tiny  jaws.  In  those  moments  he  knew  that  his 
last  hope  of  life  hung  in  the  balance.  Five,  ten 
minutes  passed,  and  not  until  then  did  he  strain  at 
the  thongs  that  bound  his  wrists.  "Was  that  the  bed 
that  had  snapped?  Or  was  it  the  breaking  of  one 
of  the  babiche  cords?  He  strained  harder.  The 
thongs  were  loosening;  his  wrists  were  freer;  with 
a  cry  that  sent  the  mouse  scurrying  to  the  floor  he 
doubled  himself  half  erect,  and  fought  like  a  mad 
man.  Five  minutes  later  and  he  was  free. 


THE   MOUSE  271 

He  staggered  to  his  feet,  and  looked  at  his  wrists. 
They  were  torn  and  bleeding.  His  second  thought 
was  of  Corporal  Carr — and  a  weapon.  The  man- 
hunter  had  taken  the  precaution  to  empty  the  cham 
bers  of  Falkner's  revolver  and  rifle  and  throw  his 
cartridges  out  in  the  snow.  But  his  skinning-knife 
was  still  in  its  sheath  and  belt,  and  he  buckled  it 
'about  his  waist.  He  had  no  thought  of  killing^  Carr, 
though  he  hated  the  man  almost  to  the  point  of  mur 
der.  But  his  lips  set  in  a  grim  smile  as  he  thought 
of  what  he  would  do. 

He  knew  that  when  Carr  returned  he  would  not 
enter  at  once  into  the  cabin.  He  was  the  sort  of 
man  who  would  never  take  an  unnecessary  chance. 
He  would  go  first  to  the  little  window — and  look  in. 
Falkner  turned  the  lamp-wick  lower,  and  placed  the 
lamp  on  the  table  directly  between  the  window  and 
the  bunk.  Then  he  rolled  his  blankets  into  some^ 
thing  like  a  human  form,  and  went  to  the  windotf 
to  see  the  effect.  The  bunk  was  in  deep  shadow. 
From  the  window  Corporal  Carr  could  not  see 
beyond  the  lamp.  Then  Falkner  waited,  out  of 
range  of  the  window,  and  close  to  the  door. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  heard  something  above 
the  wailing  of  the  storm.  It  was  the  whine  of  a 
dog,  and  he  knew  that  a  moment  later  the  Corporal's 
ghostly  face  was  peering  in  at  the  window.  Then 
there  came  the  sudden,  swift  opening  of  the  door, 
and  Carr  sprang  in  like  a  cat,  his  hand  on  the  butt 
of  his  revolver,  still  obeying  that  first  governing 
law  of  his  merciless  life — caution.  Falkner  was 


272          BACK   TO   GOD'S   COUNTRY 

so  near  that  toe  could  reach  out  and  touch  Carr,  and 
in  an  instant  he  was  at  his  enemy's  throat.  Not  a 
cry  fell  from  Carr's  lips.  There  was  death  in  the 
terrible  grip  of  Falkner's  hands,  and  like  one  whose 
neck  had  been  broken  Carr  sank  to  the  floor.  Falk 
ner's  grip  tightened,  and  he  did  not  loosen  it  until 
Carr  was  I/lack  in  the  face  and  his  jaw  fell  open. 
Then  Falkner  bound  him  hand  and  foot  with  the 
babicJie  thougs,  and  dragged  him  to  the  bunk. 

Through  the  open  door  one  of  the  sledge-dogs 
had  thrust  his  head  and  shoulders.  It  was  a  Bar 
racks  team,  accustomed  to  warmth  and  shelter,  and 
Falkner  had  no  difficulty  in  getting  the  leader  and 
his  three  mates  inside.  To  make  friends  with  them 
he  fed  them  chunks  of  raw  caribou  meat,  and  when 
Carr  opened  his  eyes  he  was  busy  packing.  He 
laughed  joyously  when  he  saw  that  the  man-hunter 
had  regained  consciousness,  and  was  staring  at  him 
with  evident  malice. 

" Hello,  Carr,"  he  greeted  affably.  "Feeling 
better?  Tables  sort  of  turned,  ain't  they?" 

Carr  made  no  answer.  His  white  lips  were  set  like 
thin  bands  of  steel. 

"I'm  getting  ready  to  leave  you,"  Falkner  ex 
plained,  as  he  rolled  up  a  blanket  and  shoved  it 
into  his  rubber  pack-pouch.  "And  you're  going  to 
stay  here — until  spring.  Do  you  get  onto  that? 
You've  got  to  stay.  I'm  going  to  leave  you 
marooned,  so  to  speak.  You  couldn't  travel  a  hun 
dred  yards  out  there  without  snowshoes,  and  I'm 
goin'  to  take  your  snowshoes.  And  I'm  goin'  to 


THE   MOUSE  273 

take  your  guns,  and  bnrn  your  pack,  your  coat,  mit 
tens,  cap  an'  moccasins.  Catch  on?  I'm  not  goin' 
to  kill  you,  and  I'm  goin'  to  leave  you  enough  grab 
to  last  until  spring,  but  you  won't  dare  risk  your 
self  very  far  out  in  the  cold  and  snow.  If  you  do, 
you'll  freeze  off  your  tootsies,  and  make  your  lungs 
sick.  Don't  you  feel  sort  of  pleasant — you — you — 
devil!" 

Six  hours  later  Falkner  stood  outside  the  cabin* 
The  dogs  were  in  their  traces,  and  the  sledge  was 
packed.  The  storm  had  blown  itself  out,  and  a 
warmer  temperature  had  followed  in  the  path  of  the 
blizzard.  He  wore  his  coat  now,  and  gently  he  felt 
of  the  bulging  pocket,  and  laughed  joyously  as  he 
faced  the  South. 

"It's  goin'  to  be  a  long  hike,  you  little  cuss,"  he 
said  softly.  "It's  goin'  to  be  a  darned  long  hike. 
But  we  '11  make  it.  Yessir,  we  11  make  it.  And  won 't 
they  be  s  'prised  when  we  fall  in  on  'em,  six  months 
ahead  of  time!" 

He  examined  the  pocket  carefully,  making  sure 
that  he  had  buttoned  down  the  flap. 

"I  wouldn't  want  to  lose  you,"  he  chuckled. 
"Next  to  her,  an'  the  kid,  I  wouldn't  want  to  lose 
you ! ' ' 

Then,  slowly,  a  strange  smile  passed  over  his  face, 
and  he  gazed  questioningly  for  a  moment  at  the 
pocket  which  he  held  in  his  hand. 

"You  nervy  little  cuss!"  he  grinned.  "I  wonder 
if  you're  a  girl  mouse,  an'  if  we're  goin'  to  have  a 


274          BACK   TO   GOD'S    COUNTRY 

famly   on   the   way  home!     An' — an' — what   the 
dickens  do  you  feed  baby  mice?" 

He  lowered  the  pocket,  and  with  a  sharp  command 
to  the  waiting  dogs  turned  his  face  into  the  South. 

THE  END 


JAMES   OLIVER  CURWOOD'S 

STORIES  OF  ADVENTURE 

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THE  RIVER'S  ENlT" 

A  story  of  the  Royal  Mounted  Police. 
THE  GOLDEN  SNARE 

Thrilling  adventures  in  the  Far  Northland. 
NOMADS  OF  THE  NORTH 

The  story  of  a  bear-cub  and  a  dog. 
KAZAN 

The  tale  of  a  "quarter-strain  wolf  and  three-quarters  husky"  torn 
between  the  call  of  the  human  and  his  wild  mate. 

BAREE,  SON  OF  KAZAN 

The  story  of  the  son  of  the  blind  Grey  Wolf  and  the  gallant  part 
he  played  in  the  lives  of  a  man  and  a  woman. 

THE  COURAGE  OF  CAPTAIN  PLUM 

The  story  of  the  King  of  Beaver  Island,  a  Mormon  colony,  and  his 
battle  with  Captain  Plum. 

THE  DANGER  TRAIL 

A  tale  of  love,  Indian  vengeance,  and  a  mystery  of  the  North. 
THE  HUNTED  WOMAN 

A  tale  of  a  great  fight  in  the  "  valley  of  gold"  for  a  woman. 
THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  NORTH 

The  story  of  Fort  o'  God,  where  the  wild  flavor  of  the  wilderness 
is  blended  with  the  courtly  atmosphere  of  France. 

THE  GRIZZLY  KING 

The  story  of  Thor,  the  big  grizzly. 
ISOBEL 

,     A  love  story  of  the  Far  North. 
THE  WOLF  HUNTERS 

A  thrilling  tale  of  adventure  in  the  Canadian  wilderness. 
THE  GOLD  HUNTERS 

The  story  of  adventure  in  the  Hudson  Bay  wilds. 
THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

Filled  with  exciting  incidents  in  the  land  of  strong  men  and  women. 
BACK  TO  GOD'S  COUNTRY 

A  thrilling  story  of  the  Far  North.  The  great  Photoplay  was  made 
from  this  book. 

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ZANE  GREY'S  NOVELS 

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THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

-.  i 

THE  U.  P.  TRAIL 

WILDFIRE 

THE  BORDER  LEGION 

THE  RAINBOW  TRAIL 

THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  DESERT 

RIDERS   OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE 

THE  LIGHT  OF  WESTERN  STARS 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  PLAINSMEN 

THE  LONE  STAR  RANGER 


BETTY  ZANE 

•  **••*• 

LAST  OF  THE  GREAT  SCOUTS 

The  life  story  of  "Buffalo  Bill"  by  his  sister  Helen  Cody 
Wetmore,  with  Foreword  and  conclusion  by  Zane  Grey. 

ZANE  GREY'S  BOOKS  FOR  BOYS 

KEN  WARD  IN  THE  JUNGLE 
THE  YOUNG  LION  HUNTER 
THE  YOUNG  FORESTER 

THE  YOUNG  PITCHER 

1 " '  •     * 

THE  SHORT  STOP 

THE  RED-HEADED  OUTFIELD  AND  OTHEk 
BASEBALL  STORIES 


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NOVELS 

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TARZAN  THE  UNTAMED 

Tells  of  Tarzan's  return  to  the  life  of  the  ape-man  in 
his  search  for  -vengeance  on  those  who  took  from  him  his 
wife  and  home. 

JUNGLE  TALES  OF  TARZAN 

Records  the  many  wonderful  exploits  by  which  Tarzan 
proves  his  right  to  ape  kingship. 

A  PRINCESS  OF  MARS 

Forty-three  million  miles  from  the  earth — a  succession 
of  the  weirdest  and  most  astounding  adventures  in  fiction. 
John  Carter,  American,  finds  himself  on  the  planet  Mars, 
battling  for  a  beautiful  woman,  with  the  Green  Men  of 
Mars,  terrible  creatures  fifteen  feet  high,  mounted  on 
horses  like  dragons. 

THE  GODS  OF  MARS 

Continuing  John  Carter' s  adventures  on  the  Planet  Mars, 

in  which  he  does  battle  against  the  ferocious  "plant  men," 

creatures  whose  mighty  tails  swished  their  victims  to  instant 

death,  and  defies   Issus,  the  terrible   Goddess  of   Death, 

:  whom  all  Mars  worships  and  reveres. 

THE  WARLORD  OF  MARS 

,  Old  acquaintances,  made  in  the  two  other  stories,  reap 
pear,  Tars  Tarkas,  Tardos  Mors  and  others.  There  is  a 
happy  ending  to  the  story  in  the  union  of  the  Warlord, 
the  title  conferred  upon  John  Carter,  with  Dejah  Thoris. 

THUVIA,  MAID  OF  MARS 

(     The  fourth  volume   of   the  series.      The  story  centers 
r  around  the  adventures  of  Carthoris,  the  son  of  John  Car 
ter  and  Thuvia,  daughter  of  a  Martian  Emperor. 

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FLORENCE  L.  BARCLAY'S 
NOVELS 

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THE  WHITE  LADIES  OF  WORCESTER 

A  novel  of  the  12th  Century.  The  heroine,  believing  she 
had  lost  her  lover,  enters  a  convent.  He  returns,  and  in 
teresting  developments  follow. 

THE  UPAS  TREE 

A  love  story  of  rare  charm.  It  deals  with  a  successful 
author  and  his  wife, 

THROUGH  THE  POSTERN  GATE 

The  story  of  a  seven  day  courtship,  in  which  the  dis 
crepancy  in  ages  vanished  into  insignificance  before  the 
convincing  demonstration  of  abiding  love. 

THE  ROSARY 

The  story  of  a  young  artist  who  is  reputed  to  love  beauty 
above  all  else  in  the  world,  but  who,  when  blinded  through 
an  accident,  gains  life's  greatest  happiness.  A  rare  story 
of  the  great  passion  of  two  real  people  superbly  capable  of 
love,  its  sacrifices  and  its  exceeding  reward. 

THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

The  lovely  young  Lady  Ingleby,  recently  widowed  by  the 
death  of  a  husband  who  never  understood  her,  meets  a  fine, 
clean  young  chap  who  is  ignorant  of  her  title  and  they  fall 
deeply  in  love  with  each  other.  When  he  learns  her  real 
identity  a  situation  of  singular  power  is  developed. 

THE  BROKEN  HALO 

The  story  of  a  young  man  whose  religious  belief  was 
shattered  in  childhood  and  restored  to  him  by  the  little 
white  lady,  many  years  older  than  himself ,  to  whom  he  is 
passionately  devoted. 

THE  FOLLOWING  OF  THE  STAR 

The  story  of  a  young  missionary,  who,  about  to  start  for 
Africa,  marries  wealthy  Diana  Rivers,  in  order  to  help  her 
fulfill  the  conditions  of  her  uncle's  will,  and  how  they  finally 
come  to  love  each  other  and  are  reunited  after  experiences 
that  soften  and  purify. 

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8EWELL    FORD'S  STORIES 

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SHORTY  McCABE.      Illustrated  by  Francis  Vaux  Wilson. 

A  very  humorous  story,    The  hero,  an  independent  and  vigoroul 
[thinker,  seea  life,  and  tells  about  it  in  a  very  unconventional!  vway 
'^IDE-STEPPING  WITH  SHORTY. 
TJIustrated  by  Francis  Vaux  Wilson. 

Twenty  skits,   presenting  people  with  their   foibles, 
with  human  nature  and  an  abounding  sense  of  humor  are  the  requi 
jites  for  "side-stepping  with  Shorty." 
SHORTY  McCABE  ON  THE  JOB. 


illustrated  by  Francis  Vaux  Wilson. 

Shorty  McCabe  reappears  with  his  figures  of  speech  revamped 
right  up  to   the  minute.      He  aids  in    the  right  distribution  of  a 
"conscience   fund,"    and   gives  joy  to   all   concerned. 
SHORTY  McCABE'S  ODD  NUMBERS; 
Illustrated  by  Francis  Vaux  Wilson. 

These  further  chronicles  of  Shorty  McCabe  tell  of  jis  studio  for 
physical  culture,  and  of  his  experiences  both  on  the  East  side  and  at 
swell  yachting  parties. 
TORCHY.      Illus,  by  Geo.  Biehm  and  Jas.  Montgomery  Flagg. 

A   red-headed  office  boy,  overflowing   with  wit  and  wisdom  pe« 
culiar  to  the  youths  reared  on  the  sidewalks  of  New  York,  tells  the 
story  of  his  experiences. 
TRYING  OUT  TORCHY.      Illustrated  by  F.  Foster  Lincoln. 

Torchy    is  just  as  deliriously  funny  in  these  stories  as  he  was  la 
the  previous  book. 
ON  WITH  TORCHY.      Illustrated  by  F.  Foster  Lincoln. 

Torchy  .'alls  desperately  in  love  with  "the  only  girl  that  evef 
wad,"  but  that  young  society  woman's  aunt  tries  to  keep  the  young 
people  apart,  which  brings  about  many  hilariously  funny  sitihttiona. 
TORCHY,  PRIVATE  SEC.  Illustrated  by  F.  Foster  Lincoln, 

5    Torchy  rises  from  the  position  of  office  boy  to  that  of  secretary 
for  the  Corrugated  Iron  Company.    The  story  is  full  of  humor  and 
Infectious  American  slang. 
WILT  THOU  TORCHY.      Illus.  by  F.  Snapp  and  A.  W.  Brown, 

Torchy  goes  on  a  treasure  search  expedition  to  the  Florida  West 
Coast,  in  company  with  a  group  of  friends  of  the  Corrugated  Trust 
and  with  his  friend's  aunt,  on  which  trip  Torchy  wins  the  aunt's 
permission  to  place  an  engagement  ring  on  Vee's  finger. 

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NOVELS  OF  FRONTIER  LIFE  BY 

WILLIAM   MACLEOD   RAINE 

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MAVERICKS 

A  bile  of  tbe  western  frontier,  where  the  "rustler"  abounds.    One  of  the  sweetest 
love  stones  ever  told. 

A  TEXAS  RANGER 

How  a  member  of  the  border  police  saved  the  life  of  an  innocent  «ian,  followed  a 
fagtdrc  to  Wyoming,  and  then  passed  through  deadly  peril  to  ultimate  happiness. 

WYOMING 

h»  tins  rtrid  stery  the  author  brings  out  the  turbid  life  of  the  frontier  with  all  its 
engaging  dash  and  vigor. 

RJDGWAY  OF   MONTANA 

Tbe  ogam  ie  laid  in  the  mining  centers  of  Montana,  where  politics  and  mining  in 
dustries  are  the  religion  of  the  country. 

BUCKY  O'CONNOR 

Every  chapter  teems  with  wholesome,  stirring  adventures,  replete  with  the  da«Kmy 
%pirit  of  the  border. 

CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

A  story  of  Arizona  ;  of  swift-riding  men  and  daring  outlaws;  of  a  bitter  icua  b*« 
cattle-men  and  sheep-herders. 

BLOTTERS 


A  story  of  the  turbid  life  of  the  frontier  with  a  charming  love  interest  running 
thiougii  Us  p&gM. 

STEVE  VEAGER 

A  story  brimful  of  excitement,  with  enaogh  gun-play  and  adventure  to  suit  anyone. 
A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  DONS 

A  Western  story  of  romance  and  adventure,  compricing  a  vivacious  and  stirring 
tale. 
THE  HIGHGRADER 

A  breezy,  pleasant  and  amusing  lore  story  of  Western  minii\y  life. 
THE  PIRATE  OF  PANAMA 

A  tele  of  old-time  pirates  and  of  modern  love,  hate  and  adventare, 
THE  YUKON  TRAIL 

A  crisply  entertaining  love  story  m  the  land  where  might  Hikes  right. 
THE  "VISION  SPLENDID  ' 

In  which  two  cousins  are  contestants  lor  the  same  prUec ;  political  honors  a&d  the-' 
tbnd  cf  a  girl. 

THE   SHERIFF'S  SON 

The  hero  finally  conquers  both  htsnaalf  and  his  enemies  and  wins  the  love  or  a 
wonderful  girL 

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THE  NOVELS  Of 

MARY  ROBERTS    RINEHART 

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DANGEROUS  DAYS. 

A  brilliant  story  of  married  life.  A  romance  of  fine  purpose  and 
stirring  appeal. 

THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE. 

Illustrations  by  The  Kinneys. 

The  story  of  a  great  love  which  cannot  be  pictured — an  interlude 
— amazing,  'romantic . 

LOVE  STORIES. 

This  book  is  exactly  what  its  title  indicates,  a  collection  of  love 
affairs — sparkling  with  humor,  tenderness  and  sweetness. 

"K."    Illustrated. 

K.  LeMoyne,  famous  surgeon,  goes  to  live  in  a  little  town  wb«r» 
beautiful  Sidney  Page  lives.  She  is  in  training  to  become  a  nurse. 
The  joys  and  troubles  of  their  young  love  are  told  with  keen  and 
sympathetic  appreciation. 

THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN. 

Illustrated  by  Howard  Chandler  Christy. 

An  absorbing  detective  story  woven  around  the  mysterious  deatb 
of  the  "  Man  in  Lower  Ten." 

WHEN  A  MAN  MARRIES. 

Illustrated  by  Harrison  Fisher  and  Mayo  Bunker. 

A  young  artist,  whose  wife  had  recently  divorced  him,  finds  that 
his  aunt  is  soon  to  visit  him.  The  aunt,  who  contributes  to  the 
family  income,  knows  nothing  of  the  domestic  upheaval.  How  th^ 
yoang  man  met  the  situation  is  entertainingly  told. 

THE  CIRCULAR  STAIRCASE.  Illustrated  by  Lester  Ralph. 

The  occupants  of  "Sunnyside"  find  the  dead  body  of  Arnold 
Armstrong  on  the  circular  staircase.  Following  the  murder  a  bank 
failure  is  announced.  Around  these  two  events  is  woven  a  plot  ot 
absorbing  interest. 

THE  STREET  OF  SEVEN  STARS.  (Photoplay  Edition.) 

Harmony  Wells,  studying  in  Vienna  to  be  a  great  violinist,  sud 
denly  realizes  that   her  money  is  almost  gon«.     She  meets  a  young  < 
ambitious  doctor  who  offers  her  chivalry  and  sympathy,  and  together 
with  world-worn   Dr.  Anna  and  Jimmie,  the  waif,  they  share  their 
l»ve  and  sender  means. 

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JACK    LONDON'S    NOVELS 

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JOHN  BARLEYCORN.    Illustrated  by  H.  T.  Dunn. 

This  remarkable  book  is  a  record  of  the  author's  own  amazing 
experiences.  This  big,  brawny  world  rover,  who  has  been  ac 
quainted  with  alcohol  from  boyhood,  comes  out  boldly  against  John 
Barleycorn.  It  is  a  string  of  exciting  adventures,  yet  it  forcefully 
£onveys  an  unf  orgetable  idea  and  makes  a  typical  Jack  London  book. 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON.   Frontispiece  by  George  Harper, 

The  story  opens  in  the  city  slums  where  Billy  Roberts,  teamster 
and  ex-prize  fighter,  and  Saxon  Brown,  laundry  worker,  meet  and 
love  and  marry.  They  tramp  from  one  end  of  California  to  the 
other,  and  in  the  Valley  of  the  Moon  find  the  farm  paradise  that  is 
to  be  their  salvation. 
BURNING  DAYLIGHT.  Four  illustrations. 

The  story  of  an  adventurer  who  went  to  Alaska  and  laid  th« 
foundations  of  his  fortune  before  the  gold  hunters  arrived.  Bringing 
his  fortunes  to  the  States  he  is  cheated  out  of  it  by  a  crowd  of  money 
kings,  and  recovers  it  only  at  the  muzzle  of  his  gun.  He  then  starts 
out  as  a  merciless  exploiter  on  his  jwn  account-  finally  he  takes  to 
drinking  and  becomes  a  picture  of  degeneration.  About  this  time 
he  falls  in  love  with  his  stenographer  and  wins  her  heart  but  not 
her  hand  and  then — but  read  the  story! 
A  SON  OF  THE  SUN.  Illustrated  by  A.  O.  Fischer  and  C.W.  Ashley. 

David  Grief  was  once  a  light-haired,  blue-eyed  youth  who  came 
from  England  to  the  South  Seas  in  search  of  adventure.  Tanned 
like  a  native  and  as  lithe  as  a  tiger,  he  became  a  real  son  of  the  sun. 
The  life  appealed  to  him  and  he  remained  and  became  very  wealthy, 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  WILD.  Illustrations  by  Philip  R.  Goodwin  and 
Charles  Livingston  Bull.    Decorations  by  Charles  E.  Hooper. 
A  book  oi  dog  adventures  as   exciting  as  any  man's  exploits 
Could  be.     Here  is  excitement  to  stir  the  blood  and  here  is  pictur 
esque  color  to  transport  the  reader  to  primitive  scenes.J 

THE  SEA  WOLF.    Illustrated  by  W.  J.  Aylward. 

Told  by  a  man  whom  Fate  suddenly  swings  from  his  fastidious 
Kfe  into  the  power  of  the  brutal  captain  of  a  sealing  schooner.     A 
aovel  of  adventure  warmed  by  a  beautiful  love  episode  that  every 
reader  will  hail  with  delight. 
WHITE  FANG.    Illustrated  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 

"White  Fang"  is  part  dog,  part  wolf  and  all  brute,  living  in  th« 
frozen  north ;  he  gradually  comes  under  the-  spell  of  man's  com 
panionship,  and  surrenders  all  at  the  last  in  a  fight  with  a  bull  dog. 
Thereafter  he  is  man's  loving  slave.  (__ 

GROSSET   &   DUNLAP,  PUBLISHERS),    NEW   YORK 


STORIES  OF  RARE  CHARM  BY 

GENE   STRATTON-PORTER 

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MICHAEL  O'HALLORAN,     Illustrated  by  Frances  Rogers. 

Michael  is  a  quick-witted  little  Irish  newsboy,  living  in  Northern 
Indiana.     He  adopts  a  deserted  little  girl,  a  cripple.     He  also  ag» 
sumes  the  responsibility  of  leading  the  entire  rural  community  uj>- 
ward  and  onward. 
LADDIE.      Illustrated  by  Herman  Pfeifer. 

This  is  a  bright,  cheery  tale  with  the  scenes  laid  IE  Indiana.  Th9 
etory  is  told  by  Little  Sister,  the  youngest  member  of  a  large  family, 
but  it  is  concerned  not  so  much  with  childish  doings  as  with  the  love 
affairs  of  older  members  of  the  family.  Chief  among  them  is  that 
of  Laddie  and  the  Princess,  an  English  girl  who  has  come  to  live  io 
the  neighborhood  and  about  whose  family  there  hangs  a  mystery. 
THE  HARVESTER.  Illustrated  by  W.  L.  Jacobs. 

"The  Harvester,"  is  a  man  of  the  woods  and  fields,  and  if  the' 
book  had  nothing  in  it  but  the  splendid  figure  of  this  man  it  would 
be  notable.     But  when  the  Girl  comes  to  his  "  Medicine  Woods." 
there  begins  a  romance  of  the  rarest  idyllic  quality. 
FRECKLES.      Illustrated. 

Freckles  is  a  nameless  waif  when  the  tale  opens,  but  the  way  in 
which  he  takes  hold  of  life  ;  the  nature  friendships  he  forms  in  the 
great  Limberlost  Swamp  ;  the  manner  in  which  everyone  who  meets 
him  succumbs  to  the  charm  of  his  engaging  personality  ;  and  hi» 
love-story  with  "  The  Angel  "  are  full  of  real  sentiment, 
A  GIRL  OF  THE  LIMBERLOST.  ^Illustrated. 

The  stcry  of  a  girl  of  the  Michigan  woods;  a  buoyant,  loveabl* 
type  of  the  self-reliant  American.  Her  philosophy  is  one  of  love  and 
kindness  towards  all  things  ;  her  hope  is  never  dimmed.  And  by 
the  sheer  beauty  of  her  soul,  and  the  purity  of  her  vision,  she  wins  from 
barren  and  unpromising  surroundings  those  rewards  of  high  courage. 
AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  RAINBOW.  Illustrations  in  colors. 

The  scene  of  this  charming  love  story  is  laid  in  Central  Indiana.  • 
i  The  etory  is  one  of  devoted  friendship,  and  tender  self-sacrificing 
>!ove.  The  novel  is  brimful  of  the  most  beautiful  word  painting  of. 

nature,  and  its  pathos  and  tender  sentiment  will  endear  it  to  all. 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  CARDINAL.     Profusely  illustrated. 

A  love  ideal  of  the  Cardinal  bird  and  bis  mate,  told  with  delicacy 
and  humor. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,        NEW  YORK 


RALPH    CONNOR'S  STORIES 

OF   THE    NORTHWEST    

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.        Ask  for  Cresset  &  Dunlap's  list 

THE  SKY  PILOT  IN  NO  MAN'S  LAND 

The  clean-hearted,  strong-limbed  man  of  the  West  leaves 
his  hills  and  forests  to  fight  the  buttle  for  freedom  in  the 
old  world. 

BLACK  ROCK 

A  story  of  strong  men  in  the  mountains  of  the  West. 
THE  SKY  PILOT 

A  story  of  cowboy  life,  abounding  in  the  freshest  humor, 
the  truest  tenderness  and  the  finest  courage. 
THE  PROSPECTOR 

A  tale  of  the  foothills  and  of  the  man  who  came  to  them 
to  lend  a  hand  to  the  lonely  men  and  women  who  needed  a 
protector. 

THE  MAN  FROM  GLENGARRY 

This  narrative  brings  us  into  contact  with  elemental  and 
volcanic  human  nature  and  with  a  hero  whose  power  breathes 
from  every  word. 
GLENGARRY  SCHOOL  DAYS 

In  this  rough  country  of  Glengarry,  Ralph  Connor  has 
found  human  nature  in  the  rough. 
THE  DOCTOR 

The  story   of  a  "preacher-doctor"  whom  big  men  and 
reckless  men  loved  for  his  unselfish  life  among  them. 
THE  FOREIGNER 

A  tale  of  the  Saskatchewan  and  of  a  "  foreigner "  who 
made  a  brave  and  winning  fight  for  manhood  and  love. 
CORPORAL  CAMERON 

This  splendid  type  of  the  upright,  out-of-door  man  about 
which  Ralph  Connor  builds  all  bis  stories,  appears  again  in 
this  book. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,         PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


B.  M.  BOWER'S  NOVELS 

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CHIP  OF  THE  FLYING  U.    Wherein  the  1  ove  affairs  of  Chip  and 

Delia  Whitman  are  charmingly  and  humorously  told. 
TOE  HAPPY  FAMILY.     A  lively  and  amusing  story,  dealing  with 

the  adventures  of  eighteen  jovial,  big  hearted  Montana  cowboys. 
PER  PRAIRIE  KNIGHT.     Describing  a  gay  party  of  Easterners 

who  exchange  a  cottage  at  Newport  for  a  Montana  ranch-house. 
THE  RANGE   DWELLERS.     Spirited  action,  a  range  feud  be. 

two  families,  and  a  Romeo  and  Juliet  courtship  make  this  a  bright, 

jolly  story. 

THE  LURE  OF  THE  DIM  TRAILS.  A  vivid  portrayal  of  tfc* 
experience  of  an  Eastern  author  among  the  cowboys. 

THE  LONESOME  TRAIL.  A  little  branch  of  sage  brush  and  the 
recollection  of  a  pair  of  large  brown  eyes  upset  "Weary"  David 
son's  plans. 

THE  LONG  SHADOW.     A  vigorous  Western  story,  sparkKng  with 
the  free  outdoor  life  of  a  mountain  ranch.    It  is  a  fine  love  story. 
GOOD  INDIAN.     A  stirring  romance  of  life  on  an  Idaho  ranch. 

FLYING  U  RANCH.     Another  delightful  story  about  Chip  and 

his  pals. 
THE  FLYING  ITS  LAST  STAND.     An  arousing  account  of  Cbfc 

and  the  other  boys  opposing  a  party  of  school  teachers. 
THE  UPHILL  CLIMB.     A  story  of  a  mountain  ranch  and  of  a 

man's  hard  fight  on  the  uphill  road  to  manliness. 
THE  PHANTOM  HERD.     The  title  of  a  moving-picture  staged  k 

New  Mexico  by  the  "Flying  U  "  boys. 
THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  SIOUX.     The  "  Flying  U  "  boys  stagr 

a  fake  bank  robbery  for  film  purposes  which  precedes  a  real  ont 

for  lust  of  gold. 
THE  GRINGOS.     A  story  of  love  and  adventure  on  a  ranch  Is 

California. 

STARR  OF  THE  DESERT.     A  New  Mexico  ranch  story  of  mys 
tery  and  adventure. 
THE  LOOKOUT  MAN.     A  Northern  California  story  full  of  action, 

excitement  and  love. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,        NEW  YORK 


JOHN  FOX,  JR'S. 

STORIES  OF  THE  KENTUCKY  MOUNTAINS 

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THE  TRAIL   OF  THE    LONESOME  PINE. 
Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 


The  "lonesome  pine"  from  which  the 
story  takes  its  name  was  a  tall  tree  that 
stood  in  solitary  splendor  on  a  mountain 
top.^  The  fame  of  the  pine  lured  a  young 
engineer  through  Kentucky  to  catch  the 
trail,  and  when  he  finally  climbed  to  its 
shelter  he  found  not  only  the  pine  but  the 
foot-prints  of  a  girl.  And  the  girl  proved 
to  be  lovely,  piquant,  and  the  trail  of 
these  girlish  foot-prints  led  the  young 
engineer  a  madder  chase  than  "the  trail 
of  the  lonesome  pine." 

SHEPHERD    OF    KINGDOM    COME 


THE    LITTLE 


Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

This  is  a  story  of  Kentucky,  in  a  settlement  known  as  "King- 
dom  Come."  It  is  a  life  rude,  semi-barbarous;  but  natural 
and  honest,  from  which  often  springs  the  flower  of  civilization. 

"  Chad."  the  "little  shepherd"  did  not  know  who  he  was  nor 
whence  he  came — he  had  just  wandered  from  door  to  door  since 
early  childhood,  seeking  shelter  with  kindly  mountaineers  who 
gladly  fathered  and  mothered  this  waif  about  whom  there  was 
such  a  mystery — a  charming  waif,  by  the  way,  who  could  play 
the  banjo  better  that  anyone  else  in  the  mountains. 

A'KNIGHT  OF  THE    CUMBERLAND., 
Illustrated   by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

I  The  scenes  are  laid  along  the  waters  of  the  Cumberland* 
the  lair  of  moonshiner  and  feudsman.  The  knight  is  a  moon 
shiner's  son,  and  the  heroine  a  beautiful  girl  perversely  chris 
tened  "The  Blight."  Two  impetuous  young  Southerners'  fall 
under  the  spell  of  "The  Blight's  "  charms  and  she  learns  what 
a  large  part  jealousy  and  pistols  have  in  the  love  making  of  the 
mountaineers. 

Included  in  this  volume  is  "  Hell  f  er-Sartain"  and  other 
stories,  some  of  Mr.  Fox's  most  entertaining  Cumberland  valley 
narratives. 

Ask  for  complete  free  list  of  G.  &  D.  Popular  Copyrighted  Fiction 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


DATE  DUE 


INTERLIBftj 

WY  1QAN 

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CAYLORD 

PRINT  ED  IN  U.  S   A  . 

3  1970  00229  7262 


A     000  569  040     9 


